IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


.f,  V',.^^ 


f^y 


If. 


1.0 


I.I 


*:°  itt  III  2.2 
:f  i^  12.0 


1.8 


i-25      1.4      1.6 

^ 

6"     

► 

V] 


^ 


-4 


7] 


'/ 


/A 


fliotografihic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14980 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Tachnicai  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notas  tachniquas  at  bibliographiquas 


Tha  Instituta  has  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  bast 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturas  of  this 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  uniqua. 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagas  in  tha 
raproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  balow. 


□    Colourad  covars/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 

□    Covars  damagad/ 
Couvartura  andommagda 

□    Covars  restorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  rastacjrAa  at/ou  pailiculAa 


D 


D 


D 


D 


n 


Cover  title  missing/ 

La  titre  de  couvartura  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Ralii  avnc  d'autres  documents 


~1^ Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 

Xj    along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serrie  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  la  long  da  la  marge  intirieure 


Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  tha  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certainas  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissant  dans  la  taxte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  itait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6ti  fiim^as. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentairas: 


L'institut  a  microfilm^  la  mailleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  M  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
da  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
una  image  raproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  m6thoda  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquis  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


D 
D 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdas 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaur^as  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe( 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachatdes  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Qualiti  inigala  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materia 
Comprend  du  material  suppl^mantaire 


I  I  Pages  damaged/ 

I  I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

I  I  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I  I  Pages  detached/ 

I  ~K  Showthrough/ 

I  I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I  I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponibia 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtanir  la  mailleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  tha  reduction  ratio  chackad  below/ 


10X 

14X 

18X 

i**"  ** 

22X 

26X 

aox 

7 

12X 

16X 

aox 

24X 

28X 

32X 

The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grAce  d  la 
gAn6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  I'exempiaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  film6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimis  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — «»signifie  "A  SUIVRE ",  le 
syrtcbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmfo  d  des  taux  de  rMuction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n6cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

/ 


/H 


r. 


LTO]N[ 
HAZLEWOOD: 

A  Memoir,  by  his  Friend 

Henry  Vane 


25p  fmttttk  4SetKet  ^cott 

Author  of  "Tho  Soul's  Qu^si  and  other  Toems  " 


PUBUSHED  AND  COPYRIGHTED  BY  Mr.  ThoMAS 
WhITTAKER,  Nos.  2  AND  ^  BiBLE  HouSE,  COR- 
NER OF  Ninth  Street  and  Fourth  Avenue, 
N.  Y.,  1892 


^co- 


rr 


Cor-iRIGIIT,  1891,  BY  TlIOMAS  WHITTAKEB 


PROLOGUE. 


rilHE  silent  processes  have  been  at  work  for 
-*-  centuries,  and  now  they  culminate,  temporarily, 
in  an  episode — Hazlewood.  Down  from  sidereal 
wastes,  up  from  green  depths  of  ocean,  centripetally 
from  wide  forests  areas,  forces  have  come,  tbi'ough 
perpetual  modifications,  until  the  supreme  result 
for  the  time  has  been  arrived  at,  and  Hazlewood, 
small,  red,  plaintive,  lies  in  his  nm*se's  arms. 
"  What  interest  have  we  in  this  infant  ?  "  you  ask. 
Has  he  lived  ?  Is  he  a  real  person  ?  Is  he  the 
writer?  Is  he  my  idea  of  you.  Reader?  Yes,  he 
is  all  these,  and  being  all,  is  of  course  none  of 
them.  Nevertheless,  Hazlewood  has  been  con- 
ceived and  bom,  and  being  born  must  live  and 
thrive,  he  having  the  good  fortime  not  to  be  one 
of  the  schemes  for  the  amelioration  of  man's  lot, 
which  are  often  conceived,  and  even  born,  and  yet 
do  not  live  and  thrive. 

Hazlewood  does  not  do  much  at  first.     He 


;  I 


2  PBOLOOUE. 

wakes  and  cries,  and  takes  his  natural  food,  and 
then  goes  to  sleep  again.  He  breathes,  his  heart 
beats,  and  the  forces  within  him  pursue  their 
natural  coui-se  in  the  process  of  development.  We 
are  not  particularly  interested  in  them,  but  this  is 
simply  because  we  cannot  perceive  their  working. 
Infinitely  interested  we  should  be  could  we  do  so. 
What  a  marvellous  sight,  had  we  eyes  to  behold 
it,  would  be  the  unfolding  of  the  latent  intellectual 
powers  in  that  little  mind-world !  What  a  new 
light  it  would  throw  on  the  after  dealings  of  the 
soul  in  life  !  At  what  moment  in  the  progress  of 
the  individual  does  the  separation  occur  between 
the  conscious  intellectual  life  aiid  the  unconscious 
physical  life?  When,  again,  are  the  different 
moments  in  which  these  two  phases  of  being 
branch  off  into  the  ever  multiplying  variations 
which  mark  the  progress  of  the  individual  ?  AH 
this  we  cannot  knov<^,  but  it  is  not  useless  to  sug- 
gest these  questions,  inasmuch  as  they  prove  that 
Hazlewood  even  in  his  nurse's  arms  is  not  uninter- 
esting— nay,  is  supremely  interesting,  even  if 
beyond  comprehension  to  enquiring  spirits.  But 
Hazlewood  is  not  to  be  always  in  his  nurse's  arms. 


PROLOOVE, 


The  development  goes  on  within  him.  The 
moments  are  passed  one  by  one.  The  gi'ey,  fixed 
world  without  him,  and  which  he  feels  close  upon 
him,  close  as  the  warm,  moist  kisses  of  Maria  are 
upon  his  cheeks,  he  discovers  is  subject  to  tem- 
porary eclipse  by  a  slight  voluntary  act  of  his 
own ; — he  knows  nothing  of  eyes  as  yet.  Again, 
he  discovers  that  this  fixed,  grey  sensation, — the 
world,  by  another  voluntary  act  may  be  recalled 
from  its  eclipse.  A  further  step  is  reached.  Light 
appears.  It  is  only  a  candle  flame,  but  his  sensa- 
tions are  intensified.  He  will  stop  his  cries  at  any 
time  and  fed.  Once  more  the  day  comes  when 
colour  is  appreciated,  rich,  warm,  sensuous  colour. 
It  is  only  an  old  red  shawl  hung  over  the  end  of 
his  mother's  bed,  but  stirring  in  his  blood  are  the 
same  forces  which  influenced  the  choice  of  flower 
and  fruit,  and  the  mating  of  diverse  ancestors 
with  variegated  skins  and  coats ;  and  this  is  why 
Hazlewood  looks  and  looks  with  wide,  infant 
eyes  in  which  as  yet  the  pupil  can  scarcely  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  iris.  Lastly,  the  grand  point 
is  gained,  he  can  perceive  motion.  He  recognizes 
change  in  the  univei'se  which  has  been   hitherto 


'   f  ! 


4  PROLOGUE. 

fixed  and  close  upon  his  brain.  Swift  motion 
dazzles  him.  He  cannot  follow  it  at  first,  but  still 
he  can  perceive  change.  Each  change  is  a  separate 
thought,  a  new  emotion.  The  foundations  of 
language  are  laid,  also  the  foundations  of  our 
story,  or  romance,  or  psychical  study,  or  biography. 
For  most  of  the  evils  and  goods  in  life,  gentle 
Reader,  the  wise  man  may  feel  sincerely  thankful. 
I  pray  at  the  beginning  of  my  task  that  it  may  be 
so  carried  out  as  to  prove  no  exception  to  the 
general  rule. 


Hi 


ill 


CHAPTER  I. 


"XTTHERE  was  Hazlewood  born  ?  At  Langdon 
'  ^  Vicarage,  in  Berkshire.  Three  elms  stood 
up  leafless  and  drear  and  shook  their  grizzled 
arms  forebodingly  all  that  windy  winter's  night  on 
which  Hazlewood  uttered  his  first  cry.  These  elms 
faced  the  porch,  and  by  them  ran  a  gravel  path, 
one  way  to  the  church  and  the  other  way  to  the 
road.  In  the  warm  Spring  days,  crocuses  will  peep 
up  round  the  grass  plots,  and  the  Virginia  creeper 
clinging  to  the  quaint  brick  house  will  put  forth 
tender  buds.  Not  far  off  is  the  old  Norman 
church  with  its  massy  square  tower.  Round  it  is 
the  graveyard,  and,  beyond,  is  a  line  of  wood, 
which  rises  in  a  gentle  slope  until  it  forms  the  last 
battlements  over  which  the  setting  sun  takes  his 
final  suiTey  of  the  earth.  Sweet,  hallowed  mem- 
ories underlie  all  Hazlewood's  thoughts  in  after 
life.  They  are  called  up  from  time  to  time  by  odd 
scraps  of  music,  and  the  scents  of  flowers,  and  the 


ii 


6 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


tender  changes  in  the  sky's  colourings.  The  mem- 
ories are  those  of  Langdon,  tliu  elms,  the  house,  the 
church  and  its  services,  and  two  faces,  sweetly  calm, 
and  growing  more  ethereal  in  the  lapse  of  time — 
the  faces  of  his  father  and  mother.  Lichens,  yel- 
low and  gray,  some  round  like  little  moons  with 
lunar  rays,  some  long  and  straggling,  creep  in  and 
out  of  the  incised  lettering  on  a  grey  tombstone 
which  records  the  names  and  dates  of  two  faithful 
lives,  and  presses  down  upon  the  dust  of  two  faith- 
ful hearts.  The  wind,  which  comes  down  from 
the  hills  in  a  long  sweep,  curls  round  as  it  reaches 
the  corner  where  they  are  laid,  close  under  the 
chancel  wall,  and  deposits  there  in  the  late  Autumn 
little  piles  of  yellow  and  brown  leaves,  which  it 
whirls  round  and  round,  and  then  lays  to  rest, 
anon  whirling  them  round  again,  and  again  drop- 
ping them,  as  though  they  were  its  last  words  to 
the  dead;  and  it  were  loth  to  let  them  fall  forever. 

Other  memories  Hazlewood  carried  away  with 
him  fix)m  his  boyhood's  home,  but  his  parents' 
comparatively  early  death,  by  which  he  was  left  an 
orphan  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  filled  his  whole  mind 
with  an  undercurrent  of  sadnesS;  which  was  with 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


him  even  in  moments  of  extreme  joy,  and  gave  a 
pathetic  tenderness  to  his  mirth. 

It  was  on  his  return  to  school  after  this  double 
bereavement,  for  his  parents  died  within  a  few 
weeks  of  one  another,  that  I  first  saw  Hazlewood. 
He  was  a  tall,  dark  boy,  with  large  wistful  eyes, 
and  a  solemn,  earnest  way  of  speaking  at  times  that 
got  him  the  nickname  of  "  par«nn."  Yet  he  was 
full  of  life  too,  and  was  leader  m  many  a  boyish 
act  of  sport  and  mischief.  H's  natural  bout,  how- 
'^ver,  was  meditative.  His  mind  dviited  perpetu- 
ally through  an  unending  series  of  emotions,  and 
outside  natiu^  was  only  real  to  him,  in  so  far  as  it 
fitted  in  with  the  mental  mood  predominant  at 
the  time.  When  in  our  walks  we  have  come  to 
one  turn  of  the  road,  where  the  hedges  are  very 
high  on  both  sides,  and  a  little  stream  trickles 
down  from  the  roots  of  an  overhanging  elm,  mak- 
ing the  place  damp  and  cool,  he  has  often  stood  for 
several  minutes  without  speaking,  and  declared 
afterwards  that  the  wet,  earthy  smell  and  tinkling 
noise  of  the  brooklet  had  called  up  in  him  emotions 
beyond  the  power  of  speech,  and  exquisitely  sad. 

Why  Hazlewood  and  I  became  friends  I  can- 


8 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


not  tell,  unless  it  were  that,  our  natures  being  com- 
plete opposites,  each  supplied  to  the  other  what 
that  other  lacked  in  himself.     Hazlewood  was  to 
me  the  living  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  poesy 
and    ideality.     Doubtless  my  prosaic  and    more 
commonplace  nature  he  found  restful.     An  ardent 
spirit,  I  have  frequently  observed,  cannot  brook 
contradiction,  or  even  enthusiasm  in  opposite  lines 
of  thought,  in  others.     Hence  men  of  genius  nearly 
always  choose  for  their  closest  friends  those  who  by 
nature  are  receptive  rather  than  initiative.     The 
favour  of  conferring  friendship  was  all  on  his  side 
— I  was  so  carried  away  by  the  splendour  of  his 
imagination,  and  the  knightliness  of  his  disposition, 
and  a  subtle  grace  that  won  the  hearts  of  all  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact,  that  I  would  as  soon 
have  parted  with  my  right  hand  as  have  forfeited 
the  friendship  of  one  so  attractive.     Yet  there  was 
an  element  of  weakness  in  his  nature.     His  mental 
organization  was  too  fine;  it  predominated  over 
his  bodily  in  too  great  a  degree.     When  the  mood 
was  upon  him,  he  could  do  anything,  but  the  mood 
would  quickly  pass  and  his  powers  were  gone.     It 
might  have  been  said  of  his  spirit,  that  it  was  like 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


9 


the  wind  which  blowoth  where  it  listeth.  There 
was  in  him  no  settled  purpose,  no  continuity  oi 
aim,  only  a  continuity  of  variation ;  a  defect,  how- 
ever, which  added  to  his  attractiveness. 

He  himself  was  conscious  of  this  weakness,  and 
a  shade  would  pass  over  his  face  if  anyone  re- 
marked it  to  him.  His  eyes  would  assume  a 
scared,  helpless  look,  as  though  he  were  caught 
hopelessly  in  the  toils  of  destiny,  or  trod  the  path  of 
a  preordained  fate.  He  has  often  spoken  to  me  on 
the  subject.  "Vane,"  he  used  to  say,  "other 
people  have  something  which  I  have  not.  There 
is  something  wrong  in'  my  composition.  Some- 
thing was  forgotten  when  I  was  made." 

Now  when  I  look  back  on  the  long  years  of  our 
friendship,  and  see  the  path  of  the  illustrious  spirit 
through  the  world,  and  note  its  failures  and  suc- 
cesses, point  by  point,  what  a  light  is  thrown  upon 
its  mysterious  and  dark  places  by  this  knowledge  of 
our  boyhood's  days.  The  end  has  come  now ;  the 
restl(«s,  unquiet,  sad  spirit  is  still ;  the  world  has 
its  idea  of  what  he  was  and  what  he  did,  but  it  is 
only  I  and  one  other  who  knew  the  man  through- 
out as  he  really  was,  and  the  greatness  of  his 


10 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


victory.  His  life  was  one  which  we  cannot 
fully  unravel  until  death  cuts  it,  and  then  we  know 
it  in  its  parts  and  we  behold  the  grandeur  of  its 
course. 

Clearly  now,  over  the  lapse  of  years,  stands  out 
one  scene  from  our  school  days.  It  was  the  night 
before  he  left  for  his  scholarship  at  Oxford,  when 
we  were  to  part  for  some  years.  After  the  lights 
were  out,  he  came  over  and  sat  on  my  bed  (being 
older  boys  we  had  a  room  to  ourselves),  and  talked 
about  his  past  and  his  future.  The  moonlight  fell 
upon  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were  ftill  of  spiritual 
light.  I  do  not  suppose  that  I  thought  of  such 
things  then,  but  as  I  recall  the  scene,  I  see  it  now 
with  a  ftiller  meaning.  With  his  dark,  curly  hair, 
in  the  weird  light,  he  made  a  study  for  an  old 
master.  Suddenly  his  voice  struck  a  note  of  deep 
sorrow. 

"  Harry,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
be  a  success.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  I  am 
not  happy,  I  cannot  be.  The  present  is  grey  and 
mysterious,  the  ftiture  is  all  dark  and  ftill  of  ter- 
rors." We  were  both  silent  for  a  few  moments, 
then  he  added^  with  his  face  still  turned  to  the 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


11 


i  cannot 
ive  know 
ur  of  its 

ands  out 
he  night 
d,  when 
le  lights 
i  (being 
i  talked 
ght  fell 
jpiritual 
of  such 
it  now 
ly  hair, 
an  old 
[)f  deep 


moonlit  window,  and  the  dark  tree  tops,  and  a  star 
which  shone  even  in  the  presence  of  the  stronger 
light,  speaking  softly  as  though  he  addressed  some 
spiritual  presence  beyond  my  vision,  "  Old  Archer's 
sermon,  to-day,  how  curious  it  was.  It  all  seemed 
like  a  prophecy  or  the  dream  of  a  prophecy.  And 
the  text,  surely  that  means  life,  life  as  it  is  to  most 
men,  to  all  men  who  think ;  *  And  it  shall  come  to 
paas  in  that  day  that  the  light  shall  not  be  clear 
nor  dark,  but  it  shall  be  one  day,  which  shall  be 
known  unto  the  Lord,  not  day  nor  night,  but  it 
shall  come  to  pass  that  at  eventime  it  shall  be 
light.'  God  grant  that  at  eventime  it  may  be 
light." 


II  ever 
;  I  am 
«y  and 
of  ter- 
»ments, 
to  the 


jm^ 


CHAPTER  II. 


A  LTHOUGH  Hazlewood  fell  off  very  much 
-^-^  towards  the  end  of  his  ooU^  career,  for  the 
first  year  or  two  his  course  at  the  University  was  a 
brilliant  one.  He  was  looked  upon  as  the  coming 
man.  Always  beyond  his  years  in  his  power  to 
grasp  intellectual  subtleties  and  to  classify  and  ana- 
lyse the  new  facts  he  was  daily  acquiring,  he  had 
made  under  the  influence  and  inspiration  of  his 
new  surroundings,  one  of  those  mental  bounds 
which  were  so  characteristic  of  the  man.  In  con- 
versing with  him,  I  have  often  noticed  how  his 
mind  would  jump  the  intervening  reasoning  and 
arrive  spontaneously  at  a  conclusion  which  only 
after  long  and  careful  consideration,  I  was  able  to 
perceive  to  be  the  correct  one.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  in  him  emotion  formed  the  foundation  of  his 
intellectual  life,  and  his  thoughts  were  linked  to- 
gether, not  in  the  manner  of  logical  sequence,  but 
in  an  extraordinary  way,  by  states  of  feeling.     He 

12 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


13 


could,  as  I  have  said,  do  all  things  while  the  mood 
was  upon  him ;  that  is,  while  a  sufficient  external 
stimulus  played  upon  his  emotional  nature.  His 
was,  I  suppose,  the  pure  artistic  temperament.  But 
the  moods  ebbed  and  flowed,  and  Lis  nature 
appeared  incapable  of  permanent  progression  in  one 
line.  These  changes  of  mood  I  speak  of,  were 
apparent  not  simply  to  me  but  to  all  who  knew 
him.  For  so  transparently  honest  was  he,  that  we 
saw  continually  into  his  inner  heart  as  through 
glass,  and  noble  and  good  and  loving  and  pure  that 
heart  was,  but  weak  as  a  child's,  blown  hither  and 
thither  by  passions  of  overwhelming  force.  That 
unknown  quality,  or  power,  which  we  felt  he  lacked, 
though  we  could  not  define  it,  had  he  had  it, 
would  have  made  him  the  noblest  and  greatest  of 
men.  He  was  like  a  grand  arch  without  a  key- 
stone, a  ship  full  sail  without  a  rudder,  the  mag- 
nificent temple  of  a  deity,  without  that  deity's 
inner  shrine.  Oxford,  therefore,  with  its  ancient 
memories,  its  unique  life,  the  cultured  tone  of  all 
around  him,  above  all,  the  admiration  which  his 
high  spirits,  his  originality  and  his  moods  of  deep 
earnestness  won  for  him,  acted  as  a  tremendous 


14 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


!  ! 

i! 
!  i 

I ; 


stimulus  to  his  mental  growth,  and  in  a  few 
months,  the  thoughtful,  ardent  school  boy  became 
a  man  and  even  leader.  In  the  Union  he  had 
spoken  several  times,  and  his  speeches  had  created 
a  sensation.  Already  he  had  gathered  round  him 
a  set  of  his  own  in  which  he  was  almost  wor- 
shipped. He  wrote  occasionally,  and  brilliantly, 
for  a  college  paper,  long  since  suppressed,  in  which 
the  wildest  schemes  were  propounded  for  the 
reformation  of  society.  To  his  tutors,  no  less  than 
to  the  undergraduates,  he  was  fascinating  in  the 
extreme.  They  failed  to  undex^stand  him,  and  yet 
surely,  if  they  did  so,  the  fault  was  not  his.  For 
there  he  was  before  them,  simple  and  unaffected, 
and,  as  I  have  said,  transparently  honest.  In 
every  mood  his  heart  was  open  and  generous,  and 
full  of  sympathy  and  love.  Not  less  attractive  to 
those  who  watched  him  narrowly,  than  his  noble 
bearing  and  buoyancy  of  spirits,  was  that  deep 
tinge  of  melancholy  which  coloured  all  his  thoughts. 
It  drew  out  the  heart  towards  him  and  struck  a 
note  of  sincerity,  the  existence  of  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  questioned  in  one  so  subject  to 
change.     Sometimes  this  melancholy  would  strike 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


16 


him  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  mirth  or  excite- 
ment, and  a  shade  would  pass  over  his  face,  as  I 
have  seen  a  field  darkened  during  sunshine  by  an 
intercepting  cloud. 

It  is  not  my  place  in  this  biography  to  speak  of 
myself,  but  it  falls  naturally  into  the  course  of  it  to 
say,  that  on  leaving  school,  as  my  father,  a  poor 
country  vicar  with  a  large  family,  could  not  afford 
to  send  me  to  the  university,  it  was  decided  that  I 
should  spend  a  year  at  home  reading  with  him, 
with  a  view  ultimately  to  my  entering  a  theological 
college  and  taking  orders.  My  home  was  a  quiet 
and  happy  one,  and  the  love  of  God  cemented  the 
union  of  its  members,  and  filled  it  with  the  light 
which  it  alone  can  give.  Many  and  many  a  time, 
did  I  tell  my  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  wonderful 
boy,  who  had  called  up  in  me  an  admiration  so 
intense  as  almost  to  exceed  the  bounds  of  reason. 
I  described  his  figure,  his  brave,  open  face,  and 
those  eyes  which  had  in  them  more  than  earthly 
light.  From  time  to  time,  I  had  letters  from  him 
in  bold,  boyish  handwriting,  irregular,  but  fast 
becoming  more  like  the  hand  of  a  man.  Some  of 
these  were  very  interesting,  all  were  frank  and  gen- 


JTT 


16 


ELTON  lIAZhEWOOD. 


■'i! 


erous  and  full  of  the  old  affection  which  we  had 
professed  for  one  another  at  school,  and  which  we 
had  sworn  that  nothing  through  life  should  ever 
destroy.  One  thing,  I,  who  read  every  word  he 
wrote,  over  and  over  again,  and  read  too  between 
the  lines,  could  not  fail  to  note,  and  that  was  that 
lately,  little  by  little,  the  religious  enthusiasm  which 
had  marked  his  earlier  lettere  seemed  to  be  passing 
away.  Occasionally  hints  were  dropped  that  it  was 
still  doubtful  as  to  whether  he  would  enter  the  min- 
istry or  not.  His  intention  upon  leaving  school 
had  been  to  follow  in  his  father's  steps.  But  he  said 
now,  that  he  was  not  as  good  as  he  used  to  be. 
All  this  caused  me  pain  in  my  boyish  fashion,  not 
so  much,  I  fear,  for  his  sake,  as  for  my  own.  For 
he  was  my  patron  saint,  my  idol,  and  what  should 
I  do  if  that  idol  were  shattered  by  a  fall  and  the 
niche  left  empty  ? 

One  day,  about  three  years  after  he  had  entered 
college,  I  received  a  note  from  him  inviting  me 
up  to  Oxford  for  a  day,  in  order  that  he  might 
show  me  over  the  place.  With  what  alacrity  I 
went,  I  can  still  remember.  He  was  at  the  station 
to  meet  me  and  gave  me  a  cordial  welcome.     He 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


17 


was  carelessly  dressed  in  boating  cap  and  jacket, 
but  this  only  served  to  set  off  the  air  of  distinction 
which  marked  him  out  from  ordinary  men.  His 
face  though  not  so  boyish  as  at  school,  was  fuller 
and  handsomer;  he  looked  healthier,  but  in  the 
expression  of  it  and  in  his  manner  there  was  just 
the  slightest  possible  evidence  of  a  change.  I 
thought  this  was  doubtless  owing  to  my  countrified 
appearance.  Perhaps  my  clothes  were  not  of  the 
most  fashionable  cut.  Perhaps,  I  thought  again,  it 
is  only  the  natural  bashfulness  which  affects  boys, 
when  they  have  not  met  for  a  long  time.  I  must 
confess,  for  my  part,  to  a  full  share  of  this  feeling. 
By  degrees,  the  strangeness,  if  I  may  call  it  so, 
wore  away,  and  in  an  hour  or  t\vo  we  were  stroll- 
ing along  side  by  side  and  chatting  freely  together 
as  of  old. 

He  took  me  to  his  rooms,  then  over  some  of  the 
colleges,  to  the  High  Street,  Newman^s,  St.  Mary^s, 
and  for  a  row  on  the  river.  I  was  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  delight,  and  nothing  could  exceed  the 
pride  I  felt,  as  I  walked  by  his  side  and  saw  the 
looks  of  furtive  admiration  which  he  unconsciously 
elicited  from  the  people  we  passed  in  the  street. 


Ii;i 


wm 


I, 


18 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


After  dinner,  for  the  sun  set  late  on  that  long  June 
afternoon,  we  strolled  down  to  Magdalen  Bridge, 
and  stood  tliere  leaning  over  the  parapet  talking, 
while  the  rich  glories  of  the  sunset  lit  up  some 
flaky  clouds  overhead,  with  crimson  and  gold,  and 
were  reflected  in  the  still  stream  below.  What  we 
had  been  talking  about,  I  do  not  know,  I  think  it 
was  the  subject  of  orders.  I  remember  now,  I  had 
asked  him  if  he  still  intended  to  enter  the  church 
upon  leaving  the  University.  To  this,  he  made 
some  evasive  reply,  then  turned  round  suddenly 
and  leaning  with  his  back  against  the  bridge,  and 
looking  across  to  the  fields  and  towers  in  the  dis- 
tance, he  said, 

"  By  the  by,  old  fellow,  I  have  a  confession  to 
make.  I  am  not  quite  so  good  as  I  used  to  be. 
I  know  it  will  shock  you.  You  remember  how  we 
used  to  talk  about  knighthood  and  Sir  Percival 
and  the  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail.  We  used  to  say 
that  we  would  strive  to  live  like  Christian  knights, 
but,  Harry,  old  man,^'  and  here  he  turned  his  face 
away  and  I  looked  steadily  down  at  the  stream,  "  I 
have  been  out  in  the  world  a  good  deal  since  then, 
and,  in  short,  IVe  fallen  from  my  ideal.     I  am 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


19 


very  sorry;  but  most  men  do.  I  would  give 
everything  I  possess  if  I  had  not.  Something  has 
gone  from  me  which  can  never  return.  They  lie, 
who  say,  that  such  a  fall  does  not  injure  a  man's 
character.  It  does,  it  lowers  him.  He  may  repent, 
he  may  settle  down  in  the  end  to  quiet  domestic 
life,  but  a  change  has  passed  over  him.  The  sunny 
open  book  of  his  childhood  has  been  sealed  up  and 
laid  away  forever.  It  can't  be  helped  now,  only  I 
am  different.  I  used  to  want  to  be  very  good, 
now  I  only  want  to  be  pretty  good.  I  may  be  a 
parson  some  day,  not  an  over-earnest  one,  but  a 
well-meaning  broad  churchman,  who  does  his  best, 
with  the  necessary  allowances,  to  restrain  the  ani- 
mal in  himself  and  others.  Now,  don't  preach  to 
me,  old  man,  I  am  older  than  you  are,  and  have 
seen  more  of  the  world ;  I  would  to  God  I  hadn't. 
But  I  felt  for  old  times'  sake  that  I  had  to  tell  you. 
Whatever  you  think  of  me,  don't  give  me  up. 
This  world's  a  bad  place,  Harry." 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  almost  to  himself, 
and  his  voice  struck  the  note  of  melancholy  so 
familiar  to  me.  He  turned  to  go  as  he  said  it,  and 
I  followed  him  without  speaking.     There  was  no 


i 


WW 


20 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


Ml  ill 


"1 


danger  of  my  preaching  to  him.  I  could  not  have 
uttered  a  word.  "Why  it  was,  I  do  not  know,  but 
1  had  a  strange,  sick  feeling.  I  suppose  it  was, 
because  I  loved  him  so.  I  was  disappointed  in 
him,  I  was  angry  with  myself,  I  hated  the  world. 
A  cloud  seemed  to  have  shut  him  off  from  God, 
and  I  hesitated  whether  to  follow  or  to  draw  back. 
Neither  spoke  again  for  a  long  time,  until  at  last 
he  broke  the  silence  with  some  trivial  remark  and 
we  got  on  to  other  topics.  Later  on  in  the  even- 
ing, I  went  with  him  to  a  wine  party  in  the  rooms 
of  a  friend  of  his.  As  soon  as  his  surroundings 
were  changed,  and  conversation  drew  him  out,  his 
spirits  rose  with  a  bound,  and  the  whole  evening  I 
sat  in  admiration  of  his  wit.  He  was  the  centre 
of  attraction  to  all  there.  His  handsome  face, 
slightly  flushed  with  wine,  and  his  rich  mellow 
voice  drew  all  eyes  towards  him.  But  something 
spoilt  the  pleasure  of  the  evening  to  me.  One 
thought  gnawed  like  a  canker  at  my  heart,  even 
when  I  strove  mc^t  to  forget  it.  A  death's  head 
seemed  to  me  to  be  at  the  feast.  There  was  some- 
thing hollow  in  all  the  mirth,  a  suggestion  of  the 
presence  of  the  evil  one.     Nor  did  this  feeling 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


21 


wear  away  till  I  knelt  by  my  IxkI  in  the  hotel 
at  which  I  stayed,  and  prayed  the  pure  prayers 
my  mother  had  taught  me,  and  asked  my  Heav- 
enly Father's  blessing  on  my  friend's  future  course. 


ii'i 


i  i  i 


ll^i 


CHAPTER  III. 

rilHE  next  summer  I  remember  very  well,  on  ac- 
"*"  count  of  an  outbreak  of  cholera  which  came 
from  the  Continent,  and  did  great  havoc  in  our 
large  cities,  and  caused  some  deaths  and  much  anx- 
iety in  the  country  villages.  Hazlewood  ran  down 
to  see  us  for  a  few  days  in  the  middle  of  July. 
He  had  just  taken  his  degree,  and  his  mind  was 
much  troubled  at  times  as  to  his  future  course. 
He  had  sufficient  private  income  to  enable  him  to 
live  in  tolerable  comfort,  so  that  he  looked  upon  a 
profession  rather  as  an  opportunity  for  work,  than 
as  a  means  of  earning  his  living.  Our  home  was 
in  Essex,  in  a  small  riu-al  parish  not  far  from  Lon- 
don. It  was  not  on  the  line  of  railway,  a  fact 
which  added  to  the  primitive  condition  of  the  place 
and  to  its  isolation.  I  have  often  wondered  how 
my  father,  active  man  that  he  was,  could  have 
spent  thirty-six  years  in  it  without  any  longer 
change  than  a  foiinight^s  holiday  in  the  summer, 

32 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD 


23 


summer, 


and  an  occasional  visit  to  London.  Hazlewood 
appeared  to  enjoy  the  quiet,  he  lounged  about  on 
the  grass  or  lay  in  the  hammock  and  smoked,  al- 
most all  day.  In  the  house,  his  manners  were 
charming.  His  popularity  at  Oxford  had  not 
spoilt  him.  He  came  into  our  family  circle  and 
took  his  place  as  though  he  were  one  of  us.  He 
played  and  romped  with  the  children,  and  told 
them  stories.  With  the  girls  he  was  always  on  the 
best  of  terms.  His  manner  towards  them  was 
courteous  and  hearty,  and  though  the  long  country 
walks  which  he  took  with  them,  he  must  often 
have  found  ver}  dull,  he  never  by  word  or  look  ap- 
ix?ared  bored  by  their  unsophisticated  conversation. 
My  father  took  great  delight  in  talking  over  college 
life  with  him,  for  my  father  was  himself  an  Oxford 
man ;  and  into  the  deepest  questions  of  politics  and 
theology,  the  good  man's  pet  subjects,  Hazlewood 
entered  with  a  judgment  and  originality  quite  am- 
azing. Not  infrequently  after  dinner,  I  have  al- 
lowed the  two  to  go  off  by  themselves  into  the 
library,  to  look  up  undisturbed  the  passages  and 
authorities,  to  which  reference  had  been  made  dur- 
ing the  day.     But  his  manner  towards  my  mother. 


1 


N 


;|!fin.r^TT 


I  i 


24 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


i 


delighted  me  most.  To  her  he  was  specially  eom*- 
teous  and  deferent.  There  was  something  entranc- 
ing in  the  chivalrous  affection  with  which  he  re- 
garded her.  Did  she  need  a  chair  under  the 
garden  trees,  in  an  instant  he  had  fetched  one. 
Did  she  in  her  sweet,  gentle  manner,  suggest  an 
opinion  on  some  point  under  discussion,  in  a  mo- 
ment his  eyes  were  bent  earnestly  upon  her  with  an 
admiration  that  had  in  it  nothing  of  arrogance  or 
patronage.  It  was  no  wonder  then  that  every 
member  of  the  household  took  this  handsome, 
clever  youth,  straightway  into  his  or  her  heart  and 
felt  the  sun  less  bright  when  he  was  gone. 

He  came  with  us  regularly  to  the  daily  services, 
and  chose  out  for  himself  a  little  seat  on  the  left  of 
the  deep  chancel,  which  was  partly  concealed  from 
view  by  an  old  tomb,  surmounted  by  the  effigy  of 
a  knight  in  armour,  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  an- 
cestors of  the  Sefton-Mallocks,  the  present  lords  of 
the  manor,  from  whom  my  father  had  the  living. 
Over  this  little  seat  was  a  deep-set  Norman  win- 
dow, filled  with  the  fragments  of  old  glass,  which 
had  been  picked  up  in  the  church  during  its  restor- 
ation, and  put  together  for  the  sake  of  preservation 


Ll  _L 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


25 


y  cour- 
ntranc- 
lie  re- 
ler  the 
3d  one. 
gest  an 
I  a  mo- 
withan 
;ance  or 
t  every 
adsome, 
jart  and 

jervices, 
B  left  of 
id  from 
jffigy  of 
the  an- 
lords  of 
living. 
,n  win- 
I,  which 
srestor- 
?rvation 


in  what  was  decidedly  a  pleasing  medley.  From 
where  I  sat  further  down  in  the  choir  stalls,  I 
could  see  the  light  of  the  late  afternoon  sun  strike 
through  the  window  at  evensong,  and  clothe  the 
old  yellow  marble  tomb  and  the  noble  quiet  fiice  of 
Hazlewood,  as  with  a  glory  not  of  earth. 

On  Sunday,  he  came  with  us  to  the  early  Eu- 
charist, and  after  service  waited  with  me  at  the  ves- 
try door  till  my  father  should  come  out.  Our  way 
to  the  Vicarage  lay  over  the  fields  and  by  a  little 
piece  of  water  denominated,  no  one  knew  why, 
Solomon's  Pond.  The  morning  was  clear  and 
lovely.  The  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of  flowers 
from  the  seed  farms  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  was 
doubtless  doubly  sweet  after  the  musty  old  church, 
which  always  did  smell,  my  father  used  to  say,  of 
the  dark  ages.  The  birds  were  singing  joyously,  and 
there  was  scarcely  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Altogether 
it  was  one  of  those  mornings  on  which  God  seems 
very  near,  and  on  which  it  is  no  effort  to  lift  up 
one's  heart  to  Him.  Nature,  and  even  our  bodily 
life,  raise  us  up,  as  though  at  such  times  there  is 
vouchsafed  to  the  soul  a  foretaste  of  that  transformed 
earth,  which  is  one  day  to  take  the  place  of  this. 


4 


tiv.'  A\ 


m 


26 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


!  !      li 


We  had  not  waited  many  minutes  before  my 
father  joined  us,  and  handing  me  the  box  contain- 
ing the  Communion  Vessels,  which  for  safety's 
sake  we  always  kept  at  the  Vicarage,  walked  on 
slightly  in  front  with  my  friend.  I  was  too  much 
occupied  with  my  thoughts  to  notice  what  conver- 
sation was  being  held  by  those  in  front,  till  I  heard 
my  father  say, 

"  Yes,  I  would  never  do  or  say  anything  to  force 
a  man  to  enter  the  priesthood.  ."-le  must  feel 
drawn  towards  it  by  the  hand  and  voice  of  God. 
Circumstances  must  indicate  the  choice,  and  the  in- 
ner call  certify  it.  I  have  never  forgotten  one 
grand  sermon  which  I  heard  Newman  preach  at 
St.  Mary's.  It  was  on  the  divine  guidance,  and 
was  in  illustration  of  so  simple  a  subject  as  God's 
loading  the  children  of  Israel  by  the  pillar  of  cloud 
and  fire.  The  lesson  has  been  with  me  ever  since, 
and  in  the  smallest  matters  I  endeavour  to  see 
God's  hand.  Newman  drew  a  striking  thought 
from  the  dual  nature  of  the  leading,  cloud  and  fire, 
according  to  the  necessities  of  the  hour.  Some- 
times we  arc  guided  by  the  light  before  us,  some- 
times by  that  light  being  made  a  darkness.     But 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


27 


s,  some- 


my  dear  fellow,"  (my  father  always  spoke  to  a 
young  man  as  though  he  were  young  himself,  he 
never  spoke  down  to  him) "  the  responsibility  of  re- 
jecting a  call  to  higher  things  is  equally  as  great  as 
the  choice  of  the  higher  life  without  the  true  call 
from  God.  If  you  have  ever  seriously  intended  to 
take  orders,  do  not  lightly,  from  fear  of  making  a 
false  step,  lay  that  intention  aside." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have  often  felt  that,"  Hazlewood 
said,  "  I  have  prayed  to  be  guided  aright,  and 
sometimes  I  feel  that  I  must  be  a  clergyman.  I 
feel  that  to  choose  the  lower,  would  have  a  para- 
lyzing effect  on  my  whole  religious  life.  And  yet 
again  there  are  moments  in  which  all  my  reli- 
gion seems  to  go,  and  the  world  only  appears  worth 
living  for.  At  such  times  the  quiet,  uneventful 
hfe  of  a  clergyman  fills  me  with  dread.  I  fancy  I 
should  die  under  the  monotony.  If  I  could  live 
such  days  as  I  have  lived  here,  all  my  life,  I 
should  have  no  fear.  But  I  am  going  back  to  the 
world  and  to  temptation,  and  from  past  experience 
I  know  that  I  shall  fall.  Surely  it  is  almost  a 
dishon«air  to  God  for  one  so  weak  and  changeable 
to  think' of  setting  himself  up  as  a  guide  to  others." 


28 


III  I  Hi 


liii 


'm 


yiliii 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


"  Well,"  my  father  said,  "  I  fancy  that  wavering 
of  spirit  between  God  and  the  world,  is  a  trial  to 
every  beginner  in  the  Christian  fight ;  but  if  the 
heart  be  right  and  pure,  it  gets  less  and  less  a  trouble, 
and  faith  grows  stronger  and  more  fixed.  I  do  not 
condone  the  evil  or  sin,  for  of  course  it  is  an  evil, 
but  I  say  it  is  natural,  and  therefore  may  be  remedied 
by  God's  grace.  Pray,  my  dear  fellow,  pray  for 
light  and  strength,  and  then  believe  that  both  will 
be  granted." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Hazlewood,  as  they  entered 
the  gate  which  led  into  the  Vicarage  garden, "  I  will 
think  over  what  you  have  said.  I  hope  it  will  all 
come  right,  rather  I  hope  that  I  shall  come  all  right." 

That  afternoon  as  Elton  and  I  were  lying  out 
on  the  grass  near  the  summer  house,  smoking,  he 
said  to  me, 

"  Did  you  hear  our  conversation  as  we  came 
home  from  church  this  morning  ?  I  love  to  talk 
to  your  father  about  religion.  I  have  never  heard 
anyone  speak  with  such  sincerity  of  heart.  There 
is  something  in  his  manner  which  makes  you  feel 
at  once  that  the  man  is  giving  utterance  to  the  real 
feelings  in  his  soul." 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


29 


"  Yes,  I  have  often  felt  that,"  I  said,  "  I  wonder 
at  times  what  I  should  have  been  like,  if  I  had  not 
had  such  a  father." 

"  In  our  talk  this  morning,"  he  continued,  "  I 
am  afraid  I  must  have  seemed  a  thorough  hypo- 
crite. I  know  that  I  led  him  to  think  me  better 
than  I  am.  But  somehow  or  other,  I  could  not  tell 
him  what  was  in  my  mind.  Do  you  know  my 
alternative  course,  if  I  do  not  enter  the  Church?  It 
is  not  journalism,  as  I  once  thought,  but  the  stage." 

"  The  stage  ! " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  should  make  a  better  actor 
than  parson.  And  you  know,  Harry,  there  is  a 
grand  opening  there  for  a  good  work.  I  certainly 
think  that  the  power  of  the  stage,  were  it  used 
rightly,  would  do  more  to  revive  religion  in  Eng- 
land than  almost  anything  else." 

"  This  is  only  one  of  your  dreams,  Elton." 

"  No,  it  isn't.  Of  course  I  have  not  decided  ;  I 
may  even  yet  be  a  parson.  This  pure  life  here 
has  done  me  a  world  of  good,  but  I  must  see  how 
I  feel  after  I  get  back  to  town.  One  thing  I  have 
settled  and  that  is,  that  if  I  am  not  a  pai'son,  I 
shall  be  an  actor." 


30 


ELTOJif  HAZLEWOOD, 


He  appeared  to  be  bent  upon  this  course,  and 
the  L.  L  day  as  I  drove  him  to  the  station,  he  was 
full  of  what  was  to  me,  this  new  idea  of  the  stage. 
He  spoke  hopefully  of  the  future,  and  was  enthusi- 
astic on  the  subject  of  the  moral  power  for  good  of 
which  the  stage  is  capable. 

It  was  with  deep  sorrow  that  the  family  bid  him 
farewell.  They  all  loved  him,  the  elders  as  a  son, 
the  children  as  a  brother,  ani  that  night  at  prayers, 
my  father,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  introduced  a 
collect  which  each  one  felt  was  intended  as  a  prayer 
for  the  departed  guest. 


:ii 


CHAPTER  IV. 

fTlHERE  are  three  ways  in  which  we  may  get  to 
-■-  know  a  human  soul — love,  personal  con- 
verse, and  correspondence.  Love  oj^ens  the  door 
of  the  heart,  and  puts  the  eyes  on  the  watch  to 
catch  what  is  good  and  noble,  and  even  the  symp- 
toms of  wrong,  which  give  us  pain,  in  the  beloved 
one.  Personal  converse  enables  us  to  trace  the 
subtle  changes  to  which  the  character  is  subject, 
and  to  note  the  harmony  of  proportions,  and  gen- 
eral tone  which  distinguish  it.  Correspondence 
gives  us  an  insight  into  the  settled  habits  of 
thought,  when  the  mind  plays  freely  without  check 
or  stimulus  from  contact  with  another  mind.  We 
cannot  truly  be  said  to  know  anyone  until  in  addi- 
tion to  our  personal  converse,  we  have  had  experi- 
ence of  him  in  a  long  course  of  letter  writing.  I 
have  often  been  struck  by  the  staitling  difference 
between  the  image  conceived  in  my  mind  of  one 
whom  I  had  known  only  by  meeting  him,  and  the 

81 


I 


i  Mil 


I 


illlfMli 


32 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


image  conveyed  to  me  afterwards  in  his  corre- 
spondence. Though  the  two  letters  that  follow 
cannot  of  course  reveal  all  Hazlewood's  mental 
characteristics,  they  nevertheless  let  us  see  his  state 
of  mind  at  the  time,  and  the  topics  which  were 
then  chiefly  interesting  to  him.  The  first  letter 
was  written  from  London,  a  day  or  two  after  his 
return  to  town  from  his  visit  to  us. 

London.  July,  18 — 

My  dear  oldfdhw. 

Since  I  left  you  there  has  been  a  rapid 
change  of  plans,  and  instead  of  going  to  the  Lakes  for  the 
summer  on  a  walking  tour,  as  I  had  at  first  intended,  Byrne 
and  I  are  to  start  to-morrow  for  St.  Maddo  on  the  Cornish 
coast,  where  his  uncle  has  a  place.  Afterwards,  we  shall  pro- 
ceed to  the  continent.  We  intend  to  make  Switzerland  our 
goal,  and  work  up  to  it  through  France.  Paris  for  a  time  will 
be  our  headquarters,  and  from  thence  we  shall  make  pilgrim- 
ages into  the  country  round  about.  It  will  be  my  first  visit 
to  the  continent,  and  I  am  almost  wild  with  anticipation. 
The  flavour  of  your  sweet  home  life  is  still  round  me,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  those  happy  peaceful  days  I  passed  with 
you.  They  did  me  a  world  of  good.  They  shewed  me  what 
life  may  be  to  those  who  love  God.  It  is  such  a  pity  that 
religion  is  set  before  men  primarily  as  a  means  to  righteous- 
ness, instead  of  a  means  to  happiness.  It  loses  by  this.  Few 
men  want  to  be  righteous,  unless  already  under  the  influence 
of  religion,  whereas  all  men,  bad  and  good,  want  to  be  happy. 
In  this  age  when  the  light  of  recusoa  and  sgienge  i^  focussed 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


'6?> 


oil  tlu'  present  world,  human  liappiness  stands  out  as  a  far 
more  important  factor  in  the  mundane  organization  than 
human  righteousness.  Therefore,  I  am  sure,  religion  would 
gain  in  popularity  if  its  votaries  set  it  before  men  a«  the  road 
to  happiness,  and  if  they  themselves  made  it  a  prime  duty 
to  reveal  practically  to  a  sorrowful  world,  the  happiness 
which  it  bestoWvS.  Perhaps  you  do  not  think  that  the  world 
is  sorrowful.  Perhaps  you  do  not  feel  the  weariness  and 
hlankness  which  at  times  steal  over  the  soul,  and  make  it 
void.  Eut  that  (mly  proves  what  I  say.  You  live  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  religion.  It  is  interwoven  with  your  daily  life. 
But  think  of  the  millions  of  starved  souls  who  crave  satisfac- 
tion and  find  it  only  in  the  gratification  of  the  senses,  those 
lower  channels  of  pleasure  which  depend  upon  the  state  of 
the  bodily  system.  In  strength,  in  the  exuberance  of  health, 
the  vicious  may  for  a  time  find  satisfaction  through  the  indul- 
gence of  passion,  but  the  day  comes  when  the  channels  are 
relentlessly  shut,  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  end,  just  when 
the  soul  would  have  something  to  fall  back  upon,  it  lies  there 
helpless,  facing  death  and  the  black  horror  of  despair.  I 
believe  if  we  could  only  see  into  the  inner  hearts  of  men, 
especially  of  those  who  are  living  without  God  in  the  world, 
and  making  a  fair  show  of  gaiety,  we  should  find,  that  behind 
all  the  lightsome  foreground  of  pleasure,  there  loomed  up  per- 
petually, this  background  of  darkness,  like  a  thunder  cloud 
which  rolls  over  the  city  at  evening  and  makes  the  world 
colourless.  Don't  say  that  this  is  only  my  morbid  tempera- 
ment coming  out.  Ask  any  one  you  like  to  strike  on  a  piano 
or  organ  the  chord  that  best  represents  the  undertones  of 
emotion,  which  in  a  perpetual  harmony  make  up  the  separate 
moments  of  his  consciousness,  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
you  will  find  it  will  be  a  minor  one.  By  the  by,  perhaps  he 
won't  give  you  a  minor  one,  because  he  will  say  it  makes  him 


% 


'\ 


:^..:-i'  L.I, J 


i  h  !       : 


!t 


III 


34 


KLToy  IIAZLEWOOD. 


feel  Pad.    Rut  that  again  proves  what  I  say.    Had  there  nol| 
lurked  tlii.s  sorrow  in  his  soul,  the  minor  chord  would  noi 
have  called  it  forth.     What  this  note  of  sadness  is  caused  by,. 
I  do  not  know.     I  think  it  is  the  consciousness  of  never  end- 
ing cliange,  and  the  Nemesis  that  must  overtake  all  we  love, 
all  we  do,  all  we  are.     In  the  experience  of  every  thoughtful 
man  there  comes  a  moment  when  the  soul  realizes  life  and 
death  as  they  are  in  themselves,  apart  from  the  thoughts  and! 
aspirations  which  fill  our  waking  as  well  as  our  dreaming  hours, I 
From  that  moment  the  man  is  a  changed  being ;  life  is  in  a 
measure  spoilt  to  him.    The  words  "  What  shall  it  profit  ?'' 
"What  shall  it  profit?"  ring  in  his  ears  like  a  death-knell,! 
and  form  a  solenm  undertone  amid  the  laughter  of  mirth,! 
and  the  plaudits  of  success.    You  remember  how  Mill  in  his! 
autobiography  describes  his  experience  of  such  a  state  of 
mind.     He  believes  that  among  Evangelical  Protestants  it  is 
such  a  spiritual  condition  which  precedes  the  phenomenal 
exaltation  of  so-called  conversion.      In  mv  own  life,  I  can 
distinctly  remember  such  a  moment  of  awakening.    It  was  at 
the  sea  side,  when  I  was  about  seventeen.     I  was  reading 
"My  Novel"  and  had  arrived  at  that  part  where  Audley 
Egerton  feels  himself  grasped  in  the  power  of  an  incurable 
disease.     Suddenly,  by  some  spiritual   leyenleinain,  his  sen- 
sations became  mine,  and  dropping  the  book,  I  sat  in  blank 
horror,  facing  death.     All  pleasure,  all  hope,  all  ambition  | 
were  blighted  in  an  instant,  and  the  exceeding  narrowness  of  j 
my  coffin  and  the  load  of  earth  above,  oppressed  and  stilled 
me.    It  was   lavj  before  the  feeling  wore  away,  and  it  has 
never  completely  gone,  but  returns  at  unexpected  moments, 
oftentimes  when  I  should  have  imagined  it  was  farthest  oil". 
Life  has  never  been  the  same  to  me  since.     I  fancy  that  most 
men  are  haunted  in  this  way  by  phantoms  in  the  soul.    Per- 
haps it  is  just  as  well  that  they  are.    It  was  never  intended 


KLTOy  IIAZLEWOOD. 


.'^5 


|thiit  ouitlily  life  should  satisfy  us.     Here,  then,  the  province 
of  religion  comes  in.     Thongli  all  else  change,  it  will  abide. 
|"iSV«<  crux  (liim  vnlr'nw  orhix,^'  that  thought   is  full  of  eoni- 
ort.     In  a  world   in  which  the  whole  of  our  mental  lifo 
is  hut  states  of  consciousness  produced  by  phases  of  being 
in  nature  or  ourselves,  it  is  a  grand  privilege  for  the  soul  to 
realize  that  there  is  an  external  absolute  fact — Ciod,  unchang- 
ing, unending,  "  the  same  yesterday,  to-diiy  and  forever,"  to 
^vliich  it  may  turn  in  emergencies,  to  whom  it  may  cling  in 
ItKatli.      The   life  of  one  who  can  do  this  must  be  nobler, 
[puror,  and  above  all  happier,  than  that  of  other  men.     Your 
[own  family  life  in  its  peace  and  purity  has  brought  this  truth 
llioine  to  me.     Never  shall  I  forget  it  and  1  hope  the  good  it 
jdid  me  will  be  lasting.     But  I  am  so  miserably  weak  and 
jwavering,  and  am  so  naturally  bad,  everything  seems  to  pull 
line  down  so  easily.    However,  some  day  I  hope  it  will  a)J 
leonie  right. 

In  the  meantime,  to  return  from  airy  abstractions,  please 
Igive  my  kindest  remembrances,  may  I  say  love?  to  your  dear 
[father  and  mother,  and  every  other  member  of  your  family, 
jit  is  strange  you  don't  like  Byrne.     I  know  you  don't,  so  you 
jnced  not  say  that  you  do.     I  also  know  why,  you  cannot 
(trust  him.     1  had  that  feeling  at  first  but  it  has  worn  away. 
I  le  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  fellows  I  have  ever  met. 
Don't  get  jealous,  old  man,  he  and  you  afi'ect  me  differently. 
I  don't  like  him  in  the  same  way  at  all  i  but  still  I  like  him 
and  he  sticks  close  to  me.     We  have  a  great  deal  in  com- 
mon, too  much  perhaps.     I  think  if  I  might  classify  you  two, 
I  should  put  you  down  as  my  good,  and  Byrne  as  my  evil 
genius.    And  yet  I  know  this  is  hard  and  unjust.     What  I 
mean  is,  each  of  yoii  in  friendship,  satisfies  one  part  of  my 
character,  you  the  higher  and  B.  the  lower.     Yet  1  feel  that 
even  this  is  unjust  to  him.    I  had  better  say  no  more,     (iood- 


Mill 


I     I 


!      i 


I    ' 


h'  I 


Hi      I 


d6 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


night,  old  man,  and  forgive  this  rambling  epistle,  which  is 
more  of  an  essay  on  religion,  or  ethics,  or  anything  else  than 
a  letter  to  a  friend.  But  I  like  to  pour  out  my  ideas  to  you 
as  you  know.  I  enclose  some  verses  which  I  wrote  in  a  pious 
mood  on  the  train  to  town.  Your  mother  may  like  to  see 
them.    Again  good-night.  Your  affectionate  friend, 

E.  H. 

The  verses  enclosed  were  the  following.  I  am 
not  a  judge  of  poetry,  so  I  cannot  pronounce  on 
their  literary  merit,  but  they  seem  to  me  to  be  very 
beautiful,  and  because  they  come  from  they  go  to 
the  heart. 

"  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 

Rev.  III.  20. 

"  I  heard  a  voice  at  midnight,  and  it  cried, 
O  weary  heart,  O  soul  for  which  I  died. 
Why  wilt  thou  spurn  my  wounded  hands  and  side  ? 

"  Is  there  a  heart  more  tender,  more  divine, 
Than  that  sad  heart  which  gave  itself  for  thine  ? 
Could  there  be  love  more  warm,  more  ftiU  than  mine  ? 

"  What  other  touch  can  still  thy  trembling  breat) 
What  other  hand  can  hold  thee  after  death  ? 
What  bread  so  sweet  to  him  that  hungereth  ? 

"  Warm  is  thy  chamber,  soft  and  warm  thy  bed. 
Bleak  howling  winds  are  round  the  path  I  tread. 
The  son  of  man  can  nowhere  lay  his  head, 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


37 


"  Wilt  thou  not  open  to  me  ?    To  and  fro 
I  wander  weary  through  tlie  driving  snow, 
But  colder  still  that  thou  wouldst  spurn  me  so. 

"  I  have  a  crown  more  bright  than  all  that  be, 
I  have  a  kingdom  wider  than  the  sea, 
But  both  have  I  abandoned,  seeking  thee. 

"  Poor  weary  heart  so  worn  and  sad  within. 
Oh,  open  to  thy  friend,  thy  stay  from  sin, 
That  I  with  all  my  love  may  enter  in." 

"  I  heard  a  voice  at  midnight  an  J  I  cried, 

0  Lord,  I  need  thy  wounded  hands  and  side, 

1  need  thy  love,  Lord  enter  and  abide." 


Of  tlie  man  Byrne,  whom  he  mentions,  I  must 
say  this  much  in  passing,  that  I  did  not  like  him. 
I  thought  him  untrustworthy  from  the  moment  I 
saw  him.  How  far  my  judgment  wa^  correct 
and  my  fears  for  hip  influence  over  Hazlewood 
were  justified,  future  chaptei'S  in  tliis  biography 
will  dhow.  It  M'as  at  his  rooms  in  <.  ford  the 
wine  party  was  held  which  I  have  mxiutioned, 
What  there  wjis  about  the  man  that  made  me  dis- 
trust him,  I  did  not  know.  He  was  clever  and 
handsome,  but  I  instinctively  shrank  from  him.    I 


1 


i    ! 


!!  I  V 


38 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


felt  at  once  that  he  was  bad.     I  could  not  under-! 
stand  how  Hazlewood  had  succumbed  to  his  in- 
fluence.    I  see  it  all  clearer  no^v,  but  '^t  that  tinu 
it  was  a  mystery  to  me.     I  should  liave  said  that,! 
were   such  a  thing  possible.   Byrne   was  a  man 
created   without   a   soul.     He    had    the    hiirhest 
human  bodily   development,    he   had   very   Iiigli] 
mental  powers,  but  he  was  only  a  beartiful  unimaV 
he  was  not  a  man.     There  appeared  t:   ho  in  him 
no  trace  of  the  image  of  God,  however  defaced. 
He  had  passion,  without  love;  intellect,  without 
reason;    beauty,    without   grace;    the   faculty   of 
speech,  without  the  sense  of  truth  ;  freedom  of  will, 
without   the   sense   of  moral    responsibility;    the 
power  of  hate,  without  the  power  to  sympathize. 
However  I  must  not  anticipate.     I  merely  say  this 
here  in  order  to  explain  Hazlewood's  letter  and 
also  the  presentiment  of  coming  evil  which  haunl*  <l 
me  for  days  after  liearing  that  Byrne  was  to  ac- 
company him  to  the  continent.     The  letter  wliicii 
follows  I   received  al)out  a  fortnight  or  so  ailcr- 
wards.      It  may  perhaps  be  thought  a  trifle  too 
long  to  have  been  inserted  in  full,  but  I  print  it 
nevertheless  as  it  reveals  the  other  side  of  Ha  ■  - 


in 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


89 


•J! 


,  pen  in  hand,  before  that  master 
the  Venus  of  Milo.     I   have  taken  out 


wood's  character,  i\\i\  artistic  side,  whir.'h  it  would 
be  unjust  in  a  biographer  to  pass  over. 

August,  18 — 
The  Louvre,  Paris. 

Ml)  dear  old  fellow. 

Here  I  am 
piece  of  human  art 
my  tablet  to  write  to  you,  and  at  the  same  time  while  away 
the  liour  and  a  half  to  dinner  when  I  expect  Byrne  to  turn 
up.  He  was  out  some  where  or  other  all  last  night.  We  do 
not  enquire  into  each  other's  movements.  I  think  it  is  wiser 
not  to  do  so  when  two  fellows  are  travelling  together.  How- 
ever, exit  Byrne,  and  now  let  me  have  you  all  to  myself. 
First,  bt  me  describe  my  surroundings  in  order  to  explain 
tliis  letter  and  what  called  it  forth.  I  am  sitting  at  one  end 
of  a  bench,  tolerably  comfortable  (a  matter  of  no  interest  to 
you  and  of  much  to  me).  Before  me,  within  a  little  railing, 
is  the  Venus.  8he  stands  out  white  and  lovelv  against  a  rich 
crimson  plush  curtain.  At  the  other  end  of  the  bench  on 
which  I  sit  (it  is  a  very  long  bench  you  may  be  sure)  is  an 
old  peasant  woman,  waiting  for  her  octogenarian  husband 
vlio  is  hobbling  about  in  juvenile  inquisitivcness,  among  the 
(Jreek  crudities  and  nudities  in  the  other  rooms.  Here  then, 
I  am  alone  in  the  presence  of  two  females.  Both  are  old, 
H'th  bear  traces  of  time's  blighting  touch.  Both  are  silent, 
and  seem  wrapped  in  the  contemplation  of  objects  beyond 
our  ken.  One  is  cold  and  hard  but  beautiful  nnd  white.  The 
r.csh  of  the  other  is  warm  and  soft  but  it  is  ugly  and  brown. 
The  breasts  of  the  one  have  sucliled  no  children  as  the  long 
years  have  died  away,  while  the  other  beai-s  all  the  evidences 
of  maternity  and  her  now  poor  withered  bosom  has  many 
times  over  been  the  cradle  of  future  nations.    The  brow  of 


l  Ml 


ilM 


i!ii 


40 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOP, 


the  one  is  calm,  cloudless  and  stamped  with  immortal  serenity ; 
the  face  of  the  other  is  ruflied  into  a  thousand  little  furrows,  as 
though  the  cares  and  troubles  of  eighty  years  had  run  hither 
and  thither  over  it,  blighting  the  flesh  and  eating  their  way 
through  it  like  sparlcs  in  a  piece  of  burnt  paper.  The  medita- 
tion of  one  is  rapt,  majestic,  the  uplifting  of  the  soul  towards 
the  ideal  and  unattainable;  the  meditation  of  the  other  is 
rapt  and  calm,  but  it  is  tlie  outcome  of  vacuity  of  thought,  the 
oppression  of  fatigue.  One  stands  out  in  semi-nudity,  but 
■  "  al  chaste  and  grand,  the  other  is  wrapped  bountifully  in 
I  homespun,  with  even  the  head,  all,  save  the  brown 
wrinkled  face  and  its  crown  of  silvery  hair,  bound  tightly  in 
the  white  folds  of  a  grandmother's  cap.  To  complete  the 
difference,  one  has  arms  and  the  other  has  not.  Surely  here 
is  a  splendid  contrast.  What  could  be  better !  Before  me  is 
ideality,  beside  me  on  the  bench,  (flavoured  with  garlic,  by  the 
by,)  is  reality.  To  sit  here  is  an  inspiration.  Here  is  life, 
there  is  art.  This  is  a  grand  opportunity  to  sketch  to  you  my 
theory  (it  may  be  the  theory  of  others  for  all  I  know,  but  I 
call  it  my  theory  because  I  thought  it  out  for  myself)  of  the 
origin  and  true  function  of  art.  Let  us  start  then  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ladder,  at  that  point  in  the  evolution  of  man  in 
which  sexual  generation  took  the  place  of  cellular  germina- 
tion from  within.  As  soon  as  life  was  made  to  depend  on 
sexual  instincts,  the  power  of  sympathy,  the  power  to  respond 
to  the  ^eeluigs  of  others,  to  experience  the  same  passions  at 
the  same  moment,  was  made  a  prime  necessity  of  existence. 
In  time,  this  power  of  sympathy  became  intensified  by  natural 
selection  ;  it  became  widened  in  its  range,  it  became  elevated 
above  the  mere  natural  animal  instincts  in  their  grossest 
forms.  Other  desires  and  emotions,  than  merely  sexual  ones 
began  to  be  imparted  to  the  more  sensitive  of  our  ancestors. 
Grace,  ease,  comfort,  happiness  were  reflected  back  to  them 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


41 


rtal  serenity ; 

tie  furrows,  as 

id  run  hither 

ng  their  way 

The  medita- 

I  soul  towards 

the  other  is 

r  thought,  the 

li-nudity,  but 

aountifully  in 

e  the  brown 

ind  tightly  in 

complete  the 

Surely  here 

Before  me  is 

I  garlic,  by  the 

Here  is  life, 

tch  to  you  my 

know,  but  I 

nyself )  of  the 

en  at  the  bot- 

3n  of  man  in 

ar  germina- 

o  depend  on 

er  to  respond 

e  passions  at 

of  existence. 

d  by  natural 

ame  elevated 

leir  grossest 

sexual  ones 

ur  ancestors. 

ack  to  them 


from  others.  All  this  of  course  must  have  taken  ages  to  bring 
about.  Then  conies  a  further  step  when  by  generalization 
men  began  to  abstract  mentally,  the  particular  motions,  atti- 
tudes, gestures,  colours  and  facial  expressions  the  perception 
of  which  in  others  caused  certain  sensations  in  themselves. 
Then  ages  afterwards,  sculptors  began  to  represent  these 
symbols,  or  what  I  will  call  concrete  equivalents  of  emotion, 
on  creations  of  their  own  in  order  to  stir  up  the  emotions  they 
desired  to  produce  in  the  minds  of  others  by  the  power  of 
sympathy.  But  these  equivalents  of  emotion  were  not  only 
embodied  in  the  creations  of  the  sculptor,  painter  and  poet. 
Even  in  architecture,  that  form  of  art  which  seems  furthest 
removed  from  analogy  to  human  conditions,  success  depends 
upon  their  proper  adjustment  and  use.  The  architecture  of 
each  nation  reveals  to  us  those  emotions  which  it  is  the  habit  of 
its  people  to  enjoy  most.  Gothic  is  the  architecture  of  nations 
who  demand  ease,  vastness,  variety  and  power,  but  powei 
only  as  the  result  of  intelligent  arrangement  and  proportion,  for 
a  waste  of  power  is  an  evidence  of  weakness.  The  emotions 
which  these  qualities  inspire  in  man  are  produced  by  the 
flowing  tracery,  the  perpetual  suggestion  by  the  arches  of  in- 
finite curves,  the  wise  adaptation  of  slender  columns  and 
vaulted  roof,  as  adequate  means  to  an  end.  Oriental  nations 
enjoy  rich  and  gorgeous  colouring,  huge  pillars  and  oppres- 
sive domes,  for  among  them  power  is  despotic  and  presses 
down  upon  the  foundations  of  society,  without  restraint  from 
reason  or  proportion,  and  the  people  love  to  have  it  so.  Let 
us  come  to  the  conclusion  to  which  I  was  bringing  you,  or 
wanted  to  bring  you,  for  I  feel  that  what  I  have  said  is  very 
crude.  It  is  for  that  reason  I  wrote  it  to  you.  I  wanted  to 
arrange  the  matter  more  clearly  in  my  own  mind.  To  con- 
clude, in  sculpture,  painting,  poetry,  and  even  in  architecture, 
the  work  of  the  artist  is  the  expressing  of  forms  of  emotion 


'•  I 


42 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


by  the  presentment  of  their  concrete  equivalents,  in  order  to 
stir  up,  through  the  innate  power  of  sympathy,  these  emotions 
in  other  men.  Here  then  we  see  the  diflerence  between  life 
and  art.  Life  is  complete  in  itself,  art  can  never  be,  should 
never  be.  The  scope  of  art  is  not  the  world  of  matter,  it  is 
the  world  of  mind.  Matter  is  only  needful  to  art  as  the 
vehicle  for  conveying  thoughts  and  emotions  from  mind  to 
mind.  Realism  is  not  true  art,  because  it  makes  more  of  the 
vehicle  conveying,  than  of  the  message  conveyed.  It  attempts 
to  create  living  things  in  the  world  of  life,  instead  of  living 
things  in  the  world  of  mind.  Life  and  art  are  therefore 
essentially  opposite.  In  life  we  work  with  numbers,  in  art 
with  x's  and  y's.  Life  is  arithmetic,  art  algebra ;  one  concrete 
Jie  other  abstract.  But  I  am  getting  further  and  further  out 
of  ray  depth ;  and  the  poor,  old  woman  has  gone  without  my 
knowing  it,  and  the  rooms  are  being  deserted,  and  Venus 
stands  out  silent  and  spectral.  I  must  go  before  I  am  turned 
out. 

Byrne  and  I  have  made  some  nice  acquaintances  here,  though 
nearly  everybody  is  away.  I  had  the  great  privilege  of  an 
introduction  the  other  day  to  H.  Errington.  He  was  over 
here  getting  up  some  part  in  Louis  XI.  which  is  to  be  pro- 
duced in  London  next  winter.  He  has  asked  me  to  call  on 
him  when  I  return,  and  has  partly  promised  me  an  opening 
in  his  company,  if  I  can  satisfy  his  requirements.  This  looks 
as  if  I  were  in  earnest,  doesn't  it  ? 

By  the  by,  Errington  is  an  old  friend  of  Lady  Massy's  in 
ray  father's  parish,  so  I  may  have  interest  there.  With  love 
to  you  and  yours,  Your  affectionate  friend, 

E.H. 


CHAPTER  V. 


rpHERE  was  nothing  surprising  in  Hazlewood's 
-*-  success  as  an  actor.  He  had  all  the  exterior 
qualifications  for  his  art,  personal  beauty,  grace 
and  majesty  of  bearing.  He  had  also  all  the 
requisite  mental  powers,  intellectual  mobility,  quick 
sympathy,  clearness  of  vision,  imagination  and  self 
confidence.  The  actor's  li.-3  h;  its  excitement  and 
applause  supplied  to  him,  as  no  other  profession 
could,  that  continual  stimulus  which  his  nature 
required.  From  his  fii'st  entrance  upon  it  there- 
fore, he  trod  the  stage  with  a  firm  step,  the  step  of 
a  master.  His  rise  was  rapid.  In  a  few  years  he 
was  at  the  head  of  his  profession.  His  pieces  ran 
on  for  hundreds  of  nights.  The  old  Tragedy 
Theatre  in  the  Strand,  which  he  had  renovated  and 
made  his  own,  was  crowded  nightly.  Statesmen, 
musicians,  poets,  sculptoi's,  sat  in  wonder  at  the 
youthful  hero  who  seemed  the  embodiment  of  their 
dreams  of  greatness  and  beauty.     Their  souls  were 

43 


)  i 


44 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


caught  up  by  his,  as  in  a  magic  whirlwind,  and 
he  bore  them  far  away  beyond  the  confines  of 
earth,  to  a  paradise  where  all  was  young  and 
beautiful,  where  desire  never  failed,  where  glorious 
visions  never  faded,  and  where  he  reigned  king  over 
the  sky  and  earth,  the  land  and  sea,  the  flowers 
and  loves  of  perpetual  spring.  There  was  no  con- 
scious effort  in  his  work.  As  soon  as  he  had  con- 
ceived a  character  as  a  whole,  he  became  it,  he 
lived  and  moved  and  breathed  it.  Every  gesture, 
every  act,  had  a  new  significance.  Hazlewood 
had  melted  away,  and  a  new  being,  a  knight  of  the 
middle  ages,  a  crusader  king,  an  Egj^tian  priest,  an 
old  Roman,  a  Greek  hero,  a  Norse  demi-god,  or 
whatever  was  the  role  he  was  playing,  stood  before 
you.  You  were  awed  in  his  presence.  As  he 
moved  across  the  stage,  you  felt  the  earth  shake 
with  the  tread  of  medieval  armies,  you  smelt  the 
dry  hot  smells  of  Syrian  plains,  or  you  gazed 
wonderingly  into  far  depths  of  sky  from  the  peaks 
of  Olympus,  or  you  heard  the  plash  and  roar  of 
ocean  rourd  the  bleak  Northern  headlands.  Be- 
cause he  felt  and  saw  these  things,  you  felt  and 
saw  them  through  him.     Out  of  tlie  dull  common 


11 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


45 


places  of  existence,  men  and  women  were  caught  up 
linto  this  world  of  art.     They  lived  for  a  time  in  a 
Idifferent  atmosphere.     Their  hearts  throbbed  with 
bursts  of  divine  passion  and  scorn,  which  they  had 
never  dreamt  of  in  their  stiff  black  and  white  social 
life.      Their  beings  vibrated  under  his  power  as 
the  dull  wood  and  metal  of  an  organ  quiver  to  the 
[glorious  conceptions  of  harmony  which  a  master 
[niind  and  touch  pour  through  them.     The  reader 
uust  not  suppose  that  this  was  accomplished  with- 
)ut  continual  study  on  Hazlewood's  part.     Doubt- 
less he  worked  in  the  same  fierce  and  all-consum- 
fcng  manner  which  generally  characterized  the  ac- 
tions of  his  genius.     The   chief  difficulty  he  ex- 
perienced in  acquiring  his  mastership  as  an  actor 
was  in  overcoming  that  defect  in  his  composition  to 
which  I  have  alluded,  his  lack  of  the  power  of  con- 
tinuity.    He  found  it  difficult  to  sustain  the  level 
[of  his  acting.     On  one  night,  when  the  mood  bore 
him  away  and  lifted  him  to  supreme  success,  he 
[was  magnificent.     But  on  the  next  night,  when  the 
mood  came  not,  it  was  hard  not  to  fail.     By  study, 
[this  difficulty    was  gradually   overcome,  and   he 
obtained  a  mastery  over  his  moods,  by  which  in  a 


li 


if* 


40 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


w\ 


m 


measure  he  could  control  and  even  induce  them.    Toj 
tlie  end,  however,  friends  have  assured  me,  that  byl 
the  presence  or  absence  of  a  magnetic  power  whichl 
kept  the  audience  spell-bound  for  hours,  they  couldl 
always  tell  whether  Hazlewood  was  in  the  mood  orl 
not.     The  piece  which  made  the  greatest  impres- 
sion upon  me  was  Henry  the  Fifth.     I  do  not  know 
whether  there  is  much  in  the  play  as  it  stands,  fori 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  judge  impartially  of  itl 
now,  because  I  can  see  it  only  as  Hazlewood  re-l 
vealed  it.     To  me,  his  acting  was  the  incarnation! 
of  nobility.     His  youth  and  grace  were  charmingj 
and  his  kingly  bearing  made  you  feel  better  andj 
nobler  for  having  beheld  it.     He  was  no  longerj 
Hazlewood,  he  was  Henry  the  Fifth,  the  crown  of 
chivalry,  the  conqueror  of  France.     Had  he  called! 
me  I  would  have  rushed  on  the  stage  and  kissedl 
his  hand,  or  knelt  before  him  and  and  received  the! 
badge  of  knighthood.     Every  attitude  and  move- 
ment was   in   perfect  consonance  with   his  part.] 
The  effect  produced  upon  the  mind  by  his  shining 
armour  and  his  dark  earnest  face,  I  shall  neveil 
forget,  when  in  the  charge  before  Harfleur,  the  king, 
fired  with  courage,  and  the  determination  bred  oil 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


47 


ithe  consciousness  of  a  right  cause,  cries  to  his 
followers,  his  voice  half  drowned  in  the  roar  of 
cannon,  his  sword  held  aloft  flinging  back  through 
the  smoke  of  battle  the  flames  of  the  beleaguered 
|city; 

"  And  you,  good  yeomen, 
Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture :  Let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding,  which  I  doubt  not, 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  his  eyes, 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips 
Straining  upon  the  start ;  the  game's  afoot. 
Follow  your  spirit  and  upon  this  charge 
Cry — "  God  for  Harry,  England,  and  St.  George." 

could  have  followed  him  on  such  a  charge  up  to 
the  very  flaming  breach  of  a  forlorn  hope.     And 

lever  shall  I  forget  the  look  of  heroism  and  devo- 
tion, so  full  of  melancholy,  and  the  loneliness  of 
greatness,  when  in  the  open  field  at  Agincourt,  on 
[he  eve  of  the  battle,  the  king,  left  alone,  lifts  up 

lis  face  to  the  dark  sky  and  prays  to  the  K    <    of 

[ings,  in  whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  life  and 

leath ; 


Ml 


I  ''hi'! 


48  ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 

"  O  (iod  of  battles,  steal  my  soldiers'  hearts, 
Possess  them  not  with  fear,  take  from  them  now, 
The  sense  of  reckoning,  if  the  opposcf'  "umbers 
Pluck  their  hearts  from  them ;  not  to        ,  O  Lord, 
O,  not  to-day,  think  not  upon  the  fault 
My  father  made  in  compassing  the  crown." 

One  curious  coincidence,  as  the  reader  will  see  it 
to  be  afterwards,  was  that  Byrne  took  the  part  of  | 
Lord  Scroop,  one  of  the  conspirators  against  Henry 
in  the  pay  of  France.  It  is  only  a  very  minor 
part,  but  so  real  was  the  tender  scorn  with  whicli 
the  king  upbraided  his  friend^s  perfidy,  that  at  the 
time,  it  was  to  me  unaccountably  t  \ing.  Now, 
as  I  look  back  upon  it,  it  seems  a  curious  fore- 
shadowing of  the  end,  and  my  belief  inclines  me  to 
acknowledge  such  prophecies  going  before,  to  be 
not  unusual  in  the  course  of  life.  The  more  I 
think  of  it,  the  stranger  the  scene  becomes.  Scroop, 
the  convicted  villain,  stood  there  before  the  king, 
and  Henry,  who  had  dismissed  the  cases  of  the 
other  conspirators,  could  hardly  repress  the  out- 
burst of  anger  and  disappointment  which  shook  his 
frame.  He  almost  cried,  tears  certainly  stood  in  his 
eyes,  as  in  a  slow  and  broken  voice  he  said,  while 
the  audience  were  hushed  and  silent  as  the  grave  : 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


49 


"  Rut  oh, 
Whnt  sliiill  I  say  to  thee,  Lord  Scroop,  thou  cruel, 
Ingratcful  savage  ;iiul  inliunian  creature, 
Thou  that  didst  bear  the  key  of  all  uiy  counsels, 
That  kuewst  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul, 
That  almost  uiight  have  coined  me  into  gold, 
WouMst  thou  have  practised  on  me  for  thy  use? 
May  it  be  possible  that  foreign  hire 
Could  out  of  thee  extract  one  s[)ark  of  evil 
That  might  annoy  my  linger?    'Tis  so  strange 
That  though  the  truth  of  it  stands  off  as  gross 
As  black  from  white,  my  eye  Avill  scarcely  see  it; 
Oh,  how  hast  thou  with  jealousy  infected 
The  sweetness  of  affiance. 
Shew  men  dutiful, 

Why  so  didst  thou,  seem  they  grave  and  learned, 
Why  so  didst  thou,  come  they  of  noble  family, 
W^hy  so  didst  thou,  seem  they  religious, 
W^hy  so  didst  thou ;  Scroop,  i  will  weep  for  thee, 
For  this  revolt  of  thine  methiuks  is  like 
Another  fall  of  man." 


» 1 .'  I 

li  ■ 
■,  > 


l\ 


m. 


I  saw  Henry  V.  three  times  altogether.     The  last 

lime  was  in  May  18 —  I  had  some  business  in  the 

(city  and  saw   Hazlewood  in  the  afternoon.     He 

[had  a  large  suite  of  rooms  in  an  old  fashioned 

lliouse  on  one  of  the  streets  which  run  down  from 

Itlie  Strand  to  what  is  now  the  embankment.    From 

the  windows  of  the  rooms  on  one  side,  there  was  a 

^rand  view  of  the  river,  and  at  evening  of  the 


mam 


:!l!!? 


Ill 


!!lt; 


50 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


magnificent  cloud-eifects  in  the  sky  behind  the 
towers  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  The  rooms 
were  exquisitely  fitted  up  in  Moorish  style  and 
luxury.  Rich  lamps,  odd  little  windows  dimmed 
with  the  gorgeous  emblazonry  of  jewelled  glass, 
art  treasures  and  curios,  life-size  statues  here  and 
tl'iere  of  the  Greek  Gods,  oriental  rugs  and  dra})erics, 
and  pastilles  burning  faintly  with  glow-worm  light 
in  the  recesses  of  tlie  silent  rooms,  were  more  like 
a  dream  of  the  Arabian  nights  than  a  modern 
abode  in  the  metropolis.  Afler  the  play  on  the 
night  in  question,  Hazlewood  took  me  home  witli 
him  to  suj)per.  He  hud  been  a  splendid  success. 
IS^cver  had  I  seen  him,  and  I  often  ran  up  from 
Beaconhurst  to  "The  Tragedy,^^  to  be  fired  and 
stimulated,  by  a  brief  admission  to  hero-land,  never 
had  I  seen  him  in  better  form.  I  had  sat  there 
entranced.  The  audience  were  enthusiastic.  They 
hung  upon  his  every  word,  they  strained  their  eyes 
to  catch  his  every  gesture.  He  was  rapturously 
applauded  afler  the  last  act,  mnch  to  my  delight,  as 
I  looked  down  in  admiration  on  the  knightly 
figure,  and  thought  of  our  boyhood  and  how  in- 
timately we  had  known  each  other,  then  and  in  the 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


61 


years  since,  and  tliat  he  was  still  my  dearest  friend. 
We  walked  to  his  rooms  down  the  noisy  Strand. 
The  street  was  crov/ded  with  people  pouring  out  of 
the  different  theatres,  but  the  air  was  refreshing 
and  the  press  and  noise  of  human  life  lessened  the 
mental  reaction  after  the  play.  Hazlewood  was 
still  under  the  intoxication  of  triumph.  His  mind 
worked  rapidly.  His  ideas  were  lit  up  with  the 
brilliance  of  genius.  His  words  came  with  a 
grandeur  and  eloquence  which  graved  them  in- 
stantly upon  the  memory.  He  had  not  quite  gone 
back  to  himself.  It  was  Henry  V.  in  disguise 
who  crossed  fearlessly  the  stream  of  cabs  and 
carriages.  We  had  supper  in  his  rooms ;  his  man 
seiTant  waited  upon  us.  Hazlewood  partook  but 
lightly  of  the  meal,  but  drank  heartily  of  some 
rare  French  wine.  Afl^r  supper  we  lounged  on 
sofas  in  his  study  and  sipped  our  coffee  while  we 
smoked.  Then  he  settled  down  to  talk.  "  Vane," 
he  said,  "I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of  in 
your  pious  parson^s  way,  you  are  thinking  what  an 
extraordinary  life  an  actor's  is.  I  fancy  in  some 
ways  you  envy  me,  don't  you  ?" 

"Well,  I  think  in  the   line  of  life  you  have 


52 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


n  ii;.i 


chosen  for  yourself,  you  arc  extremely  favoured 
and  fortunate." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  mean.  Now,  at  the  risk 
of  being  charged  with  egotism,  will  you  let  me 
tell  you  my  inner  fee^'ngs  and  aspirations,  and 
how  the  stage  appears  to  me.  Don^t  mind  inter- 
rupting me  if  I  begin  to  bo.  .  you,  and  give  me 
permission  en  my  part  to  wake  you  up  if  you  go 
to  deep.  Let  me  ring  for  another  cup  of  coffee  so 
that  you  may  have  strength  to  hear  me  to  the  end. 

"Acting  is  a  form  of  art,  but  it  is  the  low- 
est form,  then  comes  music,  then  painting  and 
sculpture  and  then  poetry.  This  is  not  a  capri- 
cious order,  it  does  not  depend  upon  personal 
preference.  I  myself  appreciate  acting  more  than 
poetry.  But  I  take  it,  that  that  form  of  art  must 
be  the  highest,  the  enjoyment  of  which  depends 
least  upon  the  sensuous  nature  of  the  percipient, 
l^ecause  intellectual  pleasures  are  the  only  ones 
which  grow  intenser  as  life  goes  on,  and  the  bodily 
powers  decay.  Acting  reaches  the  intellect,  but  it 
does  so  only  if  the  three  channels  of  speech,  sight, 
and  hearing  are  in  good  working  order.  A  blind 
man  who  enjoys  hearing  a  play  read,  enjoys  the 


ELTOiJ  UAZLEWOOD. 


63 


poetry  of  it,  not  the  acting.  Music  does  not  pre- 
suppose the  faculty  of  speech,  but  its  effects  entirely 
depend  upon  the  possession  of  what  is  called  a 
musical  ear,  a  possession  which  many  great  and 
morally  sane  men  have  not,  and  which  many  small 
and  morally  insane  men  have.  Painting  I  put 
lower  than  sculpture,  because  it  involves  colour 
as  well  as  form,  two  separate  channels  of  sensu- 
ous emotion.  A  blind  man  again  who  enjoys 
the  description  of  a  painting,  is  not  moved  by  the 
picture,  but  the  poetical  emotion  which  it  contains. 
In  poetiy,  however,  emotions  are  repeated  almost 
instantaneously  as  by  a  mystical  telegraphy  along 
the  wire  of  rhythmical  language.  The  sensations 
of  pleasure  are  purely  the  result  of  intellectual  and 
not  sensuous  perception,  unless  of  course  we  are  to 
regard  the  rhythmical  effect  as  sensuous.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  pleasure  which  comes  even 
from  form  and  metre  in  poetry,  is  an  intellectual 
pleasure,  derived  from  the  appreciation  of  the 
divine  fitness  and  arrangement  of  the  words  to  the 
thoughts.  That  rhythm  has  probably  a  deeper 
origin,  I  allow,  but  what  that  origin  is  I  do  not 
know.     Sometimes  I  think  that  the  whole  order  of 


' '  I  Ml 
'  11:1 


■H 


I !     11 


h  I 


I      i 


ii 


5t 


i;iTOJ\r  HAZLEWOOD. 


recurring  changes  in  nature  is  a  divine  rhythm, 
and  is  music  and  poetry  in  the  ears  of  God.  May 
not  the  love  of  rhythm  in  man  be  a  feeble  echo  of 
this  ? 

"  Hallo,  HaiTy,  are  you  going  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not,  go  on." 

"  Well,  I  must  leave  poetry,  and  confine  myself 
to  my  own  art.  Acting,  inasmuch  as  it  appeals  so 
strongly  to  the  senses,  is  more  immediately  power- 
fid  in  its  effects  than  other  and  higher  branches  of  ] 
art.  But  by  the  law  of  equalization  what  it  gains 
in  concentration  of  power,  it  loses  in  extent  and 
duration.  Its  effects  are  rapid,  but  they  are  eva- 
nescent. They  reach  only  a  comparatively  fe^v. 
The  actor  at  death  leaves  behind  him  no  part  of  | 
himself  or  his  art,  save  what  lingei's  in  the  mem- 
ory of  former  spectators,  and  a  bubble  reputation 
as  a  successflil  player.  He  cannot  hope,  as  a  poet 
(^an,  to  arouse  noble  and  inspiring  thoughts,  and 
create  worlds  of  beauty  in  the  minde'  of  men  and 
women,  hundreds  of  years  after  his  death  in  the 
wilds  of  Australia  or  in  the  back  woods  of  Canada. 
No,  he  is  blessed  because  he  has  his  reward,  but  he  | 
cannot  expect  more.     Within  these  necessary  limi- 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


65 


tations,  however,  acting  is  a  grand  art.      Now, 

to-night,  I  lived  and  moved   in  a  world  which 

never  existed,  in  a  realm  of  glory  and  imagination, 

and  I  felt  that  I  carried  the  people  with  me.    /was 

the  King  there.      The  Prince  in  his  box  forgot 

for  a  time  and  looked  down  upon  me  as  the  true 

monarch.     He  did  me  unconscious  homage  in  his 

heart.     And  from  the  Princes  in   the  royal   box 

to  the  poorest  crossing-sweeper  in  the  gods,  every 

I  heart  thrilled  with  noble  aspirations.     Sordid  city 

men  forgot  the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks  and  the  prices 

of  flour  and  pork.     Withered  old  dowagers  forgot 

tliat  their  comeliness  of  figure  was  owing  to  tne 

iBkill  of  the  dressmaker,  and   their  blushes  and 

Ibloom  the  result  of  rouge.     Young  girls  who  were 

[lovely,  forgot  that  the  scene  before  them  was  only 

pood  and  canvas  and  paint  and  gaslight,  and  one 

md  all  felt  the  enthusiasm  of  a  ciiivalry  which  the 

kvorld  has  never,  and  can  never,  experience,  which 

Is  only  possible  in  the  world  of  art.     Yes,  there 

|\vas  not  a  man  or  woman,  a  boy  or  girl,  in  tlie 

3lace,  who  did  not  for  the  time  love  me  madly, 

)assionately,  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason  or  con- 

frol,  in  that  wild  way  in  which  the  soul  of  Schu- 


mem 


56 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


bert  loves,  as  it  rushes  on  impetuously,  without 
restraint,  through  his  Sonatas.     I  felt  and  knew  my 
power ;  I  held  the  people  entranced.     It  seemed 
perfectly  easy.     I  could  raise  my  voice  and  the  I 
house  would  tremble,  I  dropped  it  to  a  whisix^rJ 
and  a  thousand  hearts  stopped  beating.     I  gre^v 
desperate  in  my  power.     I  toyed  with  it.     Thel 
audience  and  its  applause  were  nothing  to  me.     ll 
was  supreme,  far,  far  above  it.     Every  heart  there! 
was  bound  by  invisible  cords  immediately  to  mine. 
I  could  have  gone  to  the  front  and,  without  speak-l 
ing,  held  up  my  little  finger,  and  thousands  of  eyosl 
would  liave  watched  the  motion,  trifling  and  ridic-l 
ulous  as  it  would  have  been,  with  the  eagerness  witli 
whicli  men  in  Parliament,  at  a  critical  moment] 
scan  the  expression  of  their  leader's  face. 

"  I  have  given  you  now  a  description  of  an  actor'sl 
feelings.  Can  anything  be  more  delightful  ?  Canl 
power  ever  be  more  absorbing?  Can  any  work,! 
less,  of  course,  than  cleric's  work,  be  more  noblel 
than  to  lift  up,  as  I  know  I  did  to-night,  gross,! 
sordid  hearts  with  emotions  which  must,  as  a  grand| 
memory,  cling  to  them  in  after  life  ?     Don't  youl 


S!'  ! 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


57 


think  me  very  conceited  to  be  talking  to  you  in 
this  way  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,  Elton,  I  know  you  are  just  open- 
ing up  to  me  yom'  inner  feelings,  and  in  some  way, 
as  you  were  acting  this  evening,  a  dim  conscious- 
ness of  what  they  were  came  over  me.  As  you 
say,  this  subtle  power  must  be  intoxicating." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  But  do  you  remember  that  I  used 
to  tell  you  that  my  brain  was  haunted  b)  a 
thought,  or  the  ghost  of  a  thought,  which  spoilt  all 
life  to  me  at  the  pinnacle  of  its  successes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  perfectly." 

"  Well,  the  thought  or  the  feeling  came  over  me 
to-night,  in  the  midst  of  the  play.  It  came  upon 
me  huddenly,  with  a  click,  as  I  used  to  say.  It 
was  in  that  scene  between  Henry  and  Catherine. 
Just  when  all  eyes  were  upon  me,  I  felt  the  ice  of 
tlie  shadow  fall  across  my  soul." 

He  raised  himself  on  liis  elbow  and  looked 
across  at  me  as  he  said  this  with  an  expression  of 
intense  melancholy. 

"Yes,  it  was  icy,"  he  continued,  "it  almost 
staggered  me.  For  a  moment  I  could  not  speak, 
but  it  passed  away  again,  leaving  my  soul  tired 


liiiniiiiiiii! 


liiil 


w 


■,i'!ii 


58 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


and  empty.     And  what  do  you  think  it  was?     It| 
was  the  thought  of  the  end,  the  tedious  death-bed, 
the  fading  daylight,  the  rattle  in  my  throat,  the| 
final  agony,  the  struggle  and  the  dark  grave." 

He  spoke  verj'  solemnly  and  v»4th  an  absent  air, 
as  though  while  talking  to  me  he  was  looking  all 
something  else. 

"Yes,  Harry,  after  all,  you  have  chosen  th^ 
better  part." 


CHAPTER   VI. 


^■^n^ 


"TTAZLE WOOD'S  marriage  was  as  much  a  siir- 

-*"■-     prise  to  me,  I  had   almost  said  shock,  as 

an\i;hing  which  happened  in  his  checquered  his- 

I  tory.     Why  it  should  have  surprised  me,  I  do  not 

know,  but  it  seemed  to  bring  him  down  to  earth. 

He  had  been  to  me  before  an  ethereal  being,  one 

set  apart  above  our  ordinary  commonplace  life  and 

[affections.     His  was  a  world  in  which  love  might 

[enter  as  a  pure,   divine  emotion,  but   mamage 

lever.     It  was   like  the  prose  paraphrase  of  a 

^rand  poem.     It  was  one  thing  to  know  Hazle- 

wood  loved  and  another  to  know  he  wanted  to  get 

larried.     Perhaps,  too,  there  lurked  a  little  jeal- 

)usy  in  my  heart  and  a  fear  lest  his  marriage 

should  do  what  mine  had  not,  put  an  end  to  our 

riendship.     Even  while  I  had  these  thoughts,  my 

Reason  convinced  me  that  they  were  foolish   and 

iVTong.     In  spite  of  his  ideality  and  my  idealiza- 

ion  of  him,  Hazlewood  svas  a  man  after  all ;  and 


m,W] 


!i 


Jill)  I 


ill 


60 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


why  should  he  not  enjoy  that  greatest  of  all  mun- 
dane   blessings,  domestic    love   and    life.     As   a 
Christian  priest,  I  should  be  the  last  one  to  speak 
derogatively  of  Holy  Marriage.     But  I  write  my  | 
thoughts  to  show  how  Hazlewood  appeared  to  mc, 
and  that  my  sense  of  his  superiority  and  spiritual- 
ity was  still  dominant.     There  are  few  who  are  s(j ! 
free  from  superstition  as  not  to  look  for  omens  on 
their    wedding    day.     Strangely    prophetic    were 
those  on  that  twentieth  day  of  November.     The 
dawn  rose  red  and  foreboding.     For  a  few  mo- 1 
ments  only,  two  long  streaks  of  light  broke  hori- 
zontally through  the  banks  of  dull  slate-KX)loure(l| 
clouds  which  blocked  the  path  of  day.     These  rays 
striking  upon  some  white  cloud  masses  in  the  Wesil 
were  reflected  upon  the  earth,  reversing  the  shadows! 
of  trees  and  other  objects  in  the  landscape,  produc- 
ing a  weird  sensation  in  the  mind,  as  though  on(j 
were  in  a  dream  and  saw  things  backwards.     Na- 
ture appeared  as  though  it  were  evening,  while  the 
mind  knew  that  it  was  morning.     These  rays  wertl 
soon  withdrawn,  and  the  cloud  openings  closed  up] 
and  the  world  became  a  dull  grey.     The  air  waa 
sultry,  and  the  sea,  which  had  been  noisy  all  nightJ 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


61 


broke  unceasingly  in  a  dirge-like   monotony.     I 
t^upposc  there  had  been  a  storm  out  in  mid  oeean 
some  days  before,  and  the  rollers  we  saw  had  been 
(aiiscd  by  it,  as  there  was  little  Nvind  to  speak  of 
(11  shore.     In  the  garden,  and  round  the  ehurch, 
cave  for  this  sea-roar,  there  m  as  a  deathlike  still- 
ness.    Tmces  of  summer  were  still  visible  in  the 
I  green  of  the  grass  and  shrubs,  but  the  whole  earth 
looked  sepulchral  and  bare.     Its  sorrow  and  deso- 
lation seemed  of  a  sudden  to  ]ia\'e  become  opprcs- 
[gively  patent.     It  was  like  the   face  of  the  dead 
when  the  sheet  is  pulled  back,  and  the  very  reseni- 
jblance  of  death  to  life  suggests  to  us  oveq^ower- 
pngly  the  difference  between  life  and  death. 

I  was  in  my  study  writing,  Avhen  a  carriage 
Irove  up  to  the  door ;  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell 
ind  Mr.  Hazlewood,  two  ladies  and  a  gentleman 
[the  gentleman  was  Byrne)  were  anuounced  by  the 
laid.  I  was  astonished  beyond  measure  at  the 
^rrival,  but  the  ladies  entered  and  were  introduced 
my  wife.  They  were  a  Miss  Ingoldsby  and  a 
Urs.  Carter-Savage.  We  sat  chatting  together  as 
peasantly  as  we  could,  while  the  carriage  was  kept 
raiting  at  the  door,  but  we  were  ftone  of  us  at  our 


li 


^'i 


■  * 


I 


II   hlj; 


)l'i   !!ii| 


62 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD, 


case.  I  did  not  like  the  women  and  I  could  sen 
that  my  wife  did  not.  Byrne,  as  I  have  said,  1 
always  distrusted  and  detested.  Even  Hazlewood 
did  not  appear  at  his  l^est.  Botli  ladies  had  a 
great  deal  of  manner.  They  were  very  enthusia^ 
tic  about  the  country  and  the  "charming,  old  I 
church,"  and  the  "  cosy,  little  Vicarage."  But  on| 
my  life  I  could  not  discern  the  meaning  of  thi« 
early  morning  call.  Suddenly,  Hazlewood  turncdl 
to  me  and  said, 

"  Harry,  old  man,  do  you  know  what  we  havc| 
come  for  ?  " 

The  ladies,  esjiecially  Miss  Ingoldsby,  appearcdl 
self  conscious  and  looked  on  the  ground,  and  thci 
Mrs.  Carter-Savage,  raising  her  eyes,  smiled  feebhj 
at  Byrne. 

"  No,  I  don't,  exactly,"  said  I,  somewhat  rudelTJ 

"  Well,  I,  rather  we,  have  come  to  get  you  {\ 
marry  us." 

*•  What,  all  four  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  thank  you  "  "^^  Byrne,  dryly. 

Whereat  M^.  Carter-fr     age    tossal    oack  he 
dainty  little  head  and  laugheu  m  sically. 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


63 


"  Byrne,  don't  ha  rude,"  said  Hazlcwood,  "  you 
arc  fearfully  jealous,  you  know  you  are." 

Jtyme  smiled  softly  at  this. 

"  No,  Harry,  not  four,  two.  Miss  Ingoldsby  and 
myself.  We  wanted  our  marriage  to  be  quiet, 
without  an}'  fuss,  and  so  I  thought  Beaconhui-st 
was  the  place  for  us.  Besides,  I  have  always  prom- 
ised you  that  you  should  marry  me.  So  here  we 
are.  Now,  old  fellow,  we  haven't  much  time  to 
spare,"  (here  he  looked  at  his  watch)  "  as  it  is  al- 
ready eleven  and  we  have  to  drive  back  to  Chill- 
ington  in  time  to  catch  the  one  o'clock  train.  I 
must  ask  you  to  be  quick." 

I  was  terribly  taken  aback,  and  could  not  say 
any  pretty  things,  but  my  wife  had  more  presence 
of  mind  and  offered  her  congratulations.  I  felt 
disappointed,  bitterly  disappointed,  and  was  sure 
Hazlewood  had  been  entrapped.  Miss  Ingoldsby 
had  a  pretty  face,  but  Mrs.  Savage  was  decidedly 
a  woman  of  the  world,  and  there  was  something 
Satanic  in  Byrne's  look  and  manner.  Yet  what 
could  I  say  or  do  ? 

As  I  led  the  way  across  the  garden  to  the 
church,  I  felt  like  an  executioner  preceding  his 


|iM 

1  nm 

.;! 

1 ', 

,1       "  ■ 

"  Hi! 

«; 

llfi  lili !  ( 


! 


!i 


64 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


victim  to  the  block.  Tlie  cliurch  was  icy  cold, 
and  as  I  unlocked  the  door  and  entered,  the  warm, 
moist  air,  which  rushed  in  after  me,  was  instantly 
condensed  upon  the  walls,  and  made  the  building 
damp.  The  place  was  grey  and  dreary,  and  a 
sparrov/,  v/hich  came  in  at  the  open  door,  just  as  I 
was  beginning  the  Psalm,  disturbed  us  very  much, 
the  poor  thing  flying  about  desperately  like  an 
unquiet  spirit  which  seeks  to  escape  from  itself  and 
cannot.  It  darted  in  and  out  under  the  arches  of 
the  nave,  and  then  up  into  the  chancel,  where  it 
wheeled  round  us  several  times,  just  escaping  our 
heads,  and  then  battered  itself  hopelessly  against  the 
east  windoAV  till  it  fell  on  the  altar  exliausted. 
My  wife  had  dragged  the  gardener  into  her  service 
as  bellows-blower,  and  at  the  close  of  the  ceremony, 
in  order  to  brighten  things,  struck  up  the  wedding 
march.  But  she  was  not  familiar  with  the  instru- 
ment, and  the  gardener  was  less  so.  She  pulled 
out  a  screaming  stop  to  begin  with,  and  the  organ 
creaked  and  groaned,  as  poor  old  John  emptied 
his  own  bellows  in  endeavoring  to  fill  those  of  the 
instrument.  To  cap  the  climax,  the  damp  had 
affected  the    key-board   and    one  of   the    notes 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


65 


cyphered  with  a  dismal  wail,  which  never  altered 
or  abated,  till  poor  old  John,  who  had  nearly  blown 
the  swell-box  open  in  his  Herculean  zeal,  sud- 
denly stopped  from  sheer  exhaustion,  and  all  the 
music  and  wailing  whistled  grimly  and  went  out. 
Altogether  it  was  the  most  dismal  wedding  I  ever 
remember.  The  bridal  party,  I  think,  felt  de- 
pressed too.  Poor  dear  Elton  looked  ner^^ous,  but 
Mrs.  Elton  was  strangely  self-possessed.  My  wife 
offered  to  improvise  a  breakfast,  but  as  none  of 
the  party  would  hear  of  this,  after  a  glass  of  wine 
and  some  cake  they  left.  Then  the  sun  came  out 
and  the  feeling  of  gloom  wore  away,  and  we  were 
thankful  that  the  return  to  Chillington  would  be 
more  cheery  than  the  drive  here  had  been. 

This  touch  of  brightness  seemed  to  have  l)een 
more  truly  prophetic  than  the  gloom,  for  the  letters 
which  I  received  from  time  to  time  were  overflow- 
ing with  peace  and  happiness.  His  wife  was  a 
treasure  and  he  the  most  fortunate  of  men.  She 
was  well  received  in  society  and  Mr.  and  Mi's. 
Elton  Hazlewood  went  ever^^vhere.  His  fame  as 
an  actor  increased  daily.  "Never,"  the  Times 
said,  "  have  the  best  traditions  of  the  English  stage 


'iR;^t  ill! 
illlil;  !    1^^ 


lii! 

li 

m 


I!  I 


i!   I 


II    H: 


!l 


66 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


been  so  inai-vellously  exemplified  as  in  the  acting 
of  Mr.  Hazlewood.  In  him  the  English  drama 
touches  its  high  water  mark."  Hazlewood  had  built 
himself  a  house  on  St.  John's  Wood  Road,  and 
furnished  it  like  a  palace.  I  dined  there  on  Sun- 
day when  I  happened  to  be  in  town.  Mrs.  Hazle- 
wood was  very  charming,  but  a  trifle  too  theatrical 
in  her  manner  to  please  me.  Byrne  was  also 
there.  I  cannot,  however,  remember  that  any- 
thing worth  repeating  was  said  or  done  on  that 
evening.  About  a  year  afterwards  Hazlewood 
wrote  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy  to  annouce  the  birth  of 
a  son.  Each  following  letter  was  full  of  the  do- 
ings of  this  wonderful  child.  Then  about  three 
years  after  that  a  change  came  over  his  correspond- 
ence. His  mind  seemed  worried  and  clouded,  but 
I  could  not  divine  the  cause.  Then  I  did  not 
hear  from  him  for  a  long  time,  till  one  Wednesday 
afternoon  in  the  beginning  of  May,  I  received  a 
telegram  asking  me  to  go  to  him  at  once. 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock  when  my  cab  drove  up 
before  his  house  in  town.  A  page  opened  the  door, 
and  on  learning  my  name  escorted  me  down  the 
long  hall,  wainscoated  in  black  oak  and  hung  with 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


67 


shields  and  suits  of  old  armour,  to  a  deep  set  door 
behind  the  grand  staircase.  My  attendant  knocked, 
and  a  voice  said,  "  come  in.'*  The  boy  o^Dened  the 
door  slightly  and  bade  me  enter,  then  closed  it  at 
once,  as  soon  as  I  was  inside.  The  large  room 
with  its  rows  of  book-shelves,  dark  hangings  and 
sombre  pictures,  was  dimly  lit  by  a  shaded  lamp 
upon  the  table.  A  fire  burnt  low  on  the  antique 
hearth,  and  a  little  terrier,  which  was  curled  up  on 
a  rug  before  it,  rose  and  barked  once  at  me  as  I 
entered.  Then  all  was  silent.  At  the  table,  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  sat  Elton  Hazlewood. 
He  made  no  movement,  he  uttered  no  word  of 
welcome.  I  was  so  filled  with  alarm  that  I  stood 
there  speechless,  unable  to  move  hand  or  foot.  I 
suppose  the  silence  only  lasted  a  few  seconds,  but 
it  seemed  ages  to  me.  Then  Elton  raised  his  head. 
His  face  gave  me  a  shock.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  died  and  come  to  life  again,  and  the  shadow 
of  death  had  not  quite  worn  away.  His  features 
were  ashy  pale,  his  eyes  were  hollow  and  sunken, 
and  burnt  with  an  unnatural  and  consuming  fire, 
but  he  was  calm,  very  calm.  It  was  the  calnmcss 
which  horrified  me  more  than  anything.     I  ran 


w 


■i;:-:i-(j 


||lijg:!l)i' 


i       .'ii 


i 

iiiii 


III"'' 

M 


i 


i 


III 


68 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


toward  him  impulsively  and  put  my  arm  round 
him. 

"  Elton,  my  dear  old  fellow,  what  has  happened  ? 
Do  tell  me/' 

He  smiled  cynically,  and  rose  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire  place,  giving  me  the  chair  he  had 
left.  The  smile  was  horrible,  so  forced,  but  it  was 
nothing  to  the  suppressed  passion  of  the  hollow 
voice. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,  old  man,  only  a  domestic 
episode,  a  society  scandal.  We  shouldn't  take 
these  things  too  seriously,  you  know.  Of  course 
we  shouldn't,  but  it's  damned  hard  not  to.  Excuse 
me,  Harry,  I  forgot  you  were  a  parson." 

"  Don't  mind,  for  Heaven's  sake  go  on." 

"  Oh,  it's  only  a  domestic  episode,  nothing  more. 
Don't  be  so  impatient,  you  will  know  it  all  in 
time.  The  papers  will  be  full  of  it.  Little  street 
arabs  will  hawk  it  about  town.  Broken  down 
news-vendors  will  scribble  it  in  coloured  chalks 
upon  the  pavements.  You  will  know  it  all  in 
time.  Do  you  find  it  warm  in  here  ?  I  was  self- 
ish in  asking  you  to  come  to-night.  Your  wife,  I 
am  afraid,  will  never  forgive  me  for  bothering  you. 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


69 


It  was  very  weak  of  me,  but  I  needed  you.  I 
could  not  trust  myself  alone.  What  nonsense !  of 
coui'se  I  could.  It's  nothing,  it's  positively  noth- 
ing, but  it's  damned  hard.  Ha,  ha,  swearing 
again.     Pardonnez  moi,  Monsieur  le  Pasteur." 

"  Elton,  what  has  happened  ?  Do  tell  me  and 
don't  talk  in  this  wild  way." 

"  Tell  you  ?"  he  said,  standing  erect,  his  eyes 
flashing  fire,  "  tell  you  ?  Do  you  think,  you  fool, 
that  I  am  going  to  tell  you  more  than  I  have  ?  Do 
you  think  my  throat  is  iron  to  utter  the  burning 
words  which  proclaim  my  shame  ?  Do  you  think 
I  could  trumpet  my  dishonour,  even  to  you? 
Guess  what  has  happened  yourself,  I  cannot  tell 
you  more  than  I  have.  What  is  it  which  in  an 
instant  would  crush  you  down  in  youth  and 
strength  and  blight  your  life  and  make  you  curse 
God?  Think,  say,  what  is  it?  For  that  is  what 
has  happened  to  me." 

His  voice  rose  to  its  full  force  as  he  said  this, 
and  his  anger  w^as  so  terrible  that  I  felt  a  sensation 
of  cold  cieeping  through  my  veins.  "  I  know 
now,  Elton,"  I  said,  to  calm  him,  "  your  wife," 

"  Has  gone,"  he  added. 


70 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


liiii: 
it 


wmi 


!ii!;;|,|itili 


'liiiiii'ijjlll,,,,. 


,,!l|il:[i:iili:ii|ll!!ini 


!lii|i|iiF-=i! 


'  'iiiiiyniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! 


iniii 


■  ■■'■II 


^ilitlii 


ill;:! 


"By  herself?" 

"  No." 

'•With  Byrne?'' 

«  Yes." 

I  do  not  know  what  made  me  say  Byrne's  name, 
but  it  came  to  my  lips  spontaneously,  as  by  that 
mesmeric  suggestiveness  which  we  experience  in 
moments  of  over  excitement.  "  When  did  it  hap- 
pen, Elton  ?" 

"  God  knows,  last  night,  I  think,  while  I  was 
courting  and  kissing  poor  Marguarite's  painted 
cheeks  in  Faust.  She  was  not  here  when  I  got 
home.  They  fled  at  once,  I  have  since  found  out, 
to  the  continent." 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"  Do  ?  Why,  let  them  hug  and  kiss  each  other 
as  much  as  they  please,  and  slide  smoothly  into 
damnation  for  it." 

"  Oh,  Elton,  don't  talk  in  that  way." 

"  Now  don't  begin  a  homily,  young  man.  I 
am  not  myself  to-night.  You  wouldn't  be  if  you 
had  gone  through  what  I  have.  No  man  would. 
The  whole  universe  has  been  blasted,  the  world 
and  God  wiped  out,  and  I  only  am  left,  shattered 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOR 


71 


by  the  lightning  which   unfortunately  does  not 
always  kill  when  it  strikes." 

"  And  the  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  left  him ;  poor  degraded  wretch,  she 
had  not  even  brute  instinct  enough  to  niind  having 
him." 

"  Surely  for  the  child's  sake,  you  will  make 
some  movement  in  the  matter." 

"  No,  Harry,  I  wont,  not  even  for  the  child's 
sake.     Wait  a  minuute  and  I  will  tell  you  why." 

He  went  to  a  table  and  poured  out  a  glass  of 
brandy  and  water,  which  he  tossed  off  at  a  gulp, 
and  then  returned  to  his  former  position  before  the 
fire. 

"Why  not?  this  is  why,  and  it  is  sufficient 
reason  to  me — heaiuse  she  loves  him.  I  found  that 
out  by  accident  about  a  month  ago.  Up  to  that 
time,  I  had  loved  her  devotedly,  I  had  believed  in 
her  implicitly,  but  with  the  discovery,  my  love 
vanished.  I  was  chilled  to  the  heart.  A  statue 
could  not  have  been  more  incapable  of  love  than  I 
was.  I  was  cold  to  her,  fiendishly  cold  and  cruel. 
I  could  not  help  it.  I  did  not  like  to  see  her 
touch  my  child.     She  was  mine  no  longer,  she  was 


liii 


*'iii  III 


W  Hi; 


!iiiiiii!!;i'i;iii 


!!!;'" 


i 


ii!i 


IplMiiHill 


'ii:::;i.:'i':;;a  ; 


^ 


I    i 


1llil|ii|{j!! 


Ill 


72 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


his.  The  true  roots  of  marriage  are  in  the  soul.  I 
knew  what  was  coming,  so  I  took  the  old  nui*so 
into  my  confidence,  and  bribed  her  to  guard  the  boy. 
My  wife  noticed  the  change  in  me,  and  on  her 
part,  toleration  turned  to  hate.  Byrne  continued 
to  visit  the  house,  and  I  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  turn  him  out  or  keep  them  apart.  Then 
came  a  scene.  Harry,  do  you  remember  my 
making  a  sort  of  confession  to  you  once  at  Oxford 
as  we  stood  on  Magdalen  Bridge  ?" 

"  I  do,  distinctly." 

"  Did  you  know,  I  did  not,  till  I  heard  it  from 
my  wife's  lips,  that  I  was  a  murderer  ?  I  loved  a 
young  girl  there,  a  girl  in  humble  circumstances  ; 
her  father  drove  a  brewer's  cart,  but  she  her&clf 
was  one  of  those  delicately  refined  beings  who  are 
sometimes  found  in  the  houses  of  the  poor.  My 
love  killed  her.  I  did  not  know  this  till  my  wife 
told  me.  Byrne  knew  it,  for  he  left  Oxford  the 
year  after  I  did.  He  told  my  wife.  He  has  car- 
ried the  dread  secret  about  with  him  for  years.  It 
was  through  him  that  I  got  to  know  the  girl.  He 
had  plotted  a  vile  and  diabolical  plot  from  the  be- 
ginning and  I  in  my  weakness  and  folly  fell  a  vic- 


I! 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


73 


tim  to  it,  and  became  an  instrument  in  his  hands. 
You  were  right  about  that  man.  He  has  been 
a  serpent  in  my  path  for  years,  and  I  have  been 
too  blind  to  see  it.  If  ever  a  devil  walks  in  human 
form,  it  is  Byrne.  I  know  him  now.  The  thought 
of  him  fills  me  with  a  horror  which  I  cannot  ac- 
count for.  I  feel  as  if  some  day,  he  will  work 
my  doom.  It  was  doubtless  because  of  his  part 
in  the  affair,  that  he  never  dared  to  tell  me  the  end. 
He  alone  knew  it,  till  he  told  my  wife,  and  when 
her  lips  hurled  the  story  at  me,  and  cut  into  my 
soul  with  the  taunts  of  feminine  jealousy,  impotence 
and  hate,  I  cowered  before  her,  like  a  convicted 
felon,  and  could  not  utter  a  word  in  my  defence. 
From  that  moment  my  doom  was  sealed.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  time.  My  wife  and  I  never 
spoke  again,  and  never  shall.  Oh,  Harry,  be- 
tween the  sense  of  guilt  which,  believe  me,  has 
haunted  me  night  and  day  with  a  persistence  that 
would  have  been  impossible  in  the  case  of  other 
men,  nine  out  of  ten  of  whom  would  have  tossed  it 
from  them  as  a  bygone  folly,  and  the  sense  of 
present  anguish  as  a  just  retribution,  I  am  utterly 
crushed.     When  you  get  home,  not  here,  I  am  too 


I 


iiiil 


i^l;  .!■■ 


ifeii;;!;; 


I!i:;ii,:;i!!!!:;;;il:i,i::':.ii:: 


iiiil 


i 


ilii 


i:i!:.V    'Hi 


llllliljiiiiiial 


II  Hi  ill  li 


u 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


wicked,  you  might  say  a  prayer  for  me,  and  alter 
the  Lord's  prayer  if  you  can  "  Forgive  us  our  tres- 
passes, even  if  as  yet  we  cannot  forgive  them  that 
trespass  against  us  ?" 

"  I  will,  Elton,  but  it  can  only  be  for  a  short 
time,  the  prayer  must  soon  return  to  the  exact 
words  of  Christ." 

He  did  not  notice  this  remark,  but  added  "  I  leave 
the  stage  at  once.  When  a  man  has  once  played 
in  a  real  drama,  he  does  not  care  for  mock  ones. 
Some  men  of  course  would  not  mind.  That  is 
what  I  have  been  saying  to  myself  all  day,  over 
and  over  again  till  the  noon  turned  to  twilight  and 
the  twilight  faded  into  dark.  But  I  am  not  like 
other  men.  It  would  kill  me.  I  must  go,  I  have 
made  my  plans,  and  shall  sell  off  the  house  and 
settle  in  the  country.  If  there  is  a  place  near  you, 
I  will  take  it,  and  the  child  and  I  can  live  there  in 
retirement.  I  will  write  for  the  magazines  and  de- 
vote myself  to  my  boy  and  his  education.  Let  us 
go  out  now,  this  heat  and  silence  are  insufferable. 
It  is  past  twelve  already,  but  I  cannot  sleep,  and 
do  not  want  to  be  left  alone ;  so  if  you  are  not  too 
tired,  take  a  glass  of  sherry  and  come  with  me.'* 


:i  II 


li  iUli 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


75 


The  disburdening  of  his  soul  had  done  him 
good.  He  was  becoming  more  like  himself  again. 
The  night  was  clear  and  very  chilly,  and  the 
stars  were  shining  brilliantly.  As  we  went  down 
the  street,  we  turned  up  our  coat-collars  and 
walked  for  a  time  in  silence.  Hazlewood  wore  a 
soft,  felt  hat,  which  he  drew  down  over  his  eyes, 
and  whenever  we  met  any  one  he  lifted  his 
shoulders  till  his  face  was  half  hidden  in  the 
collar  of  his  coat,  making  recognition  impossible. 
His  step  was  quick  and  neiTous,  and  we 
walked  on  down  interminable  streets,  till  I, 
who  was  not  borne  up  by  the  same  mental 
agony  as  he,  felt  thoroughly  exhausted.  At  last 
we  reached  Oxford  Street,  and  turned  down  Bond 
Street  to  Piccadilly,  and  then  on  to  the  Hay- 
market,  Whitehall  and  "Westminster  Bridge. 
There  we  stopped  and  rested,  looking  over  the 
parapet  at  the  dark  river  that  rushed  by  under- 
neath us.  All  this  time  Hazlewood  had  spoken 
little,  and  that  only  at  intervals.  Now,  the 
grandeur  of  this  midnight  scene  aroused  him. 
The  clock  tower  of  the  parliament  buildings  stood 
up  dark  and  distinct  against  the  starlit  sky,  and 


76 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


'flfll' 


llliji' 


II 


iK  nneii  ! 


'f'!'i'!l!!!'FP9!!!(!ii 


ii'iiiii'iiifiiu.iin 

iiiiiiiiiiiiii! 


)M|" 


wlien  the  half-hour  chimwl — it  was  half  past 
one — the  vibrations  floated  off  as  if  on  an-Tel's 
wings  over  the  sleeping  city.  The  river  was 
black,  so  black  as  to  look  absolutely  solid,  but  the 
rows  of  lights  opposite  and  the  reflections  of  sev- 
eral stars  danced  upon  its  surface.  We  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  human  world,  and  the  majesty  of 
the  place,  which  to  me  is  incomparably  greater 
than  that  which  any  other  city  can  present,  over- 
whelmed us.  "  Thank  God  for  this  place," 
Hazlewood  said,  "  and  thank  God  for  that  river. 
It  is  my  refuge  in  time  of  trouble.  Over  and  over 
again  I  have  come  here  in  hours  of  anxiety  or 
depression,  and  the  solemn,  soundless  language  of 
that  dark  stream,  which  once,  ages  ago,  rolled  by 
under  these  winds  and  stars  through  wooded  soli- 
tudes, has  been  to  me  the  voice  of  God.  It  told 
me  of  the  passing  aw^ay  of  time,  of  the  nothingness 
of  man,  of  the  vanity  of  human  wishes,  and  now 
it  tells  me  of  the  vanity  of  human  anguish.  It  is 
death  and  yet  it  is  life,  and  life  because  it  is  per- 
petual death.  We  speak  of  the  river  as  being 
changeless.  We  think  of  it  as  of  a  living  thing. 
It  is  not.     What  is  a  river  ?     It  is  the  pei'petual 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


n 


sweeping  away  towards  the  unknown  sea  of  parti- 
cles of  water  never  to  return.  What  an  extraordi- 
nary lesson  this  teaches  us !  We  see  decay  and 
change  around  us  here,  in  that  abbey,  where  the 
dust  of  dead  nionarchs  lies  softly  under  the  tawdry 
jewels  that  were  buried  with  it ;  in  those  long,  low 
buildings  by  the  water's  edge,  where  the  lines  of 
human  power  over  the  globe  converge  and  part 
again.  But  in  the  river  under  us,  the  soul  fancies 
it  has  found  an  eternity,  when  behold,  it  looks  and 
the  river  too  is  seen  to  be  but  an  eternity  of  death. 
It  is  all  wonderful,  inscnitable,  it  passes  knowledge, 
we  cannot  grasp  it,  the  thought  is  overwhelming. 
It  is  so  full  of  sorrow  that  it  lightens  sorrow.  If 
God  could  be  to  me  again  as  He  once  was,  the  aeons 
to  come  would  jjerhaps  not  be  so  mysterious  and 
dark.  I  do  not  fear  hell,  I  fear  the  unknown, 
the  drifting  on  and  on  down  the  rivers  or  oceans 
of  perpetual  change.  The  thought  of  annihilation 
would  be  heaven  to  me.  Yet  these  emotions,  what 
are  they  after  all  ?  The  vibrations  of  nerve  fibres 
in  the  brain.  How  many  a  grand  sunset  has  been 
spoilt  to  me  by  my  realizing  in  moments  of  the 
most   rapt,  spiritual   exaltation,  that   the   glories 


i|P; 


mw^ 


i 


-|jjjii'il|j^i 


1 


ll^ 


iiii* 


i 


ll)llil!!j!:l;i;!l     1  ; 


78 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


v.'hicli  were  to  me  the  domes  and  ramparts  of 
heaven,  were  but  the  mechanical  action  upon  the 
retina  of  rays  of  hght  refracted  by  the  aqueous 
vapours  in  the  air.  Yet  I  cannot  believe  that  that 
is  all.  I  love  to  think  of  the  soul  as  having  size, 
of  our  dim  and  underlying  consciousness  as  of  a 
realm  vast  and  eternal  over  which  the  years  roll, 
bringing  with  them  germs  of  further  powers  and 
glories  of  the  coming  light,  till  somewhere  in  tlie 
future  the  day-dawn  shall  break,  and  the  shadows 
flee  away,  and  the  soul's  wide  empire  of  land  and 
sea,  of  thought  and  emotion,  be  unveiled  forever. 
And  so  the  river  rolls  by,  and  we  roll  by,  and  it 
and  we  are  nothing,  and  everything  is  nothing, 
save  the  relentless  whirlwind  which  bears  us  on- 
ward into  nothingness.  Harry,  I  feel  better  for 
the  walk  or  the  river.  I  did  not  think  I  could 
have  talkal  as  I  have  to-night.  We  had  better 
return,  it  will  soon  be  getting  light."  Day  had 
actually  dawned  as  we  turned  up  St.  John's  Wood 
Koad.  Before  Hazlewood  showed  me  to  my  room, 
he  took  oif  his  shoes  in  the  upper  passage  and  told 
me  to  do  the  same.  Then  he  led  me  softly  into 
the  nursery,  to  the  cot  in  which  Iiis  boy  lay.     The 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


79 


arts  c)f 
)on  the 
iqueous 
lat  that 
ng  size, 
as  of  a 
sars  roll, 
?ers  and 
:e  in  the 
shadows 
land  and 
I  forever. 
Ly,  and  it 

nothing, 
irs  us  on- 
better  for 
li  I  could 
tad  better 
I  Day  had 
[n's  Wood 

my  room, 
and  told 

ioftly  into 

lay.     The 


little  head  was  throw-n  back,  and  the  long,  dark 
ringlets  lay  in  confusion  over  the  pillow.  He  was 
a  lovely  child.  Hazlewood  bent  over  and  kissed 
him,  and  the  little  fellow  opened  his  eyes  for  a 
moment  in  his  sleep.  He  was  the  image  of  his 
father,  but  with  chubby  baby  features. 

"Hush,  darling,"  Hazlewood  said,  as  he  rose 
and  we  crept  aw-ay.  "■  Poor  little  shamed  mother- 
less boy.  God  help  us  both.  Good-night,  my 
dear  old  friend.  I  have  been  cruel  and  unkind 
to  you  to  drag  you  out  and  burden  you  w4th  my 
sorrow,  but,  Harry,  you  have  saved  my  life,  you 
and  that  innocent  little  angel  in  there." 

He  shook  my  hand  warmly  as  we  parted,  and 
my  heart  was  full  of  thankfulness  that  I  had  been 
of  any  use  to  him,  or  what  was  just  the  same,  that 
he  sho'il.t  ;l:ink  I  had.  His  voice  had  softened  as 
he  said  "  good-night,"  and  his  face  had  lost  its  hard, 
unnatural  lines,  and  I  thought  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 


mil 


i 


CHAPTER  yil. 

A  T  Beaconhurst,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
■"^^  the  Vicarage,  from  which  it  is  separated  by 
two  fields,  crossed  diagonally  by  what  soon  became 
a  well-trodden  path,  there  is  an  old  stone  house. 
At  one  time  it  was  evidently  part  of  an  ancient 
castle,  the  ruins  of  which  lie  around  and  are 
worked  into  the  garden  walls  and  vineries.  1 
stands  on  a  bluif  headland  which  looks  far  out  over 
the  sea,  and  is  a  conspicuous  object  to  sailors  and 
fishermen  in  the  channel.  The  noise  of  the  sea 
penetrates  its  massive  walls  and  mullioned  win- 
dows, and  at  night  as  I  have  sat  in  the  old  library 
and  listened  in  the  stillness,  some  curious  cave-for- 
mation in  the  rocks  below,  so  split  and  hurled 
back  the  breakers  that  there  came  round  me 
through  the  walls  and  floors  a  solemn  undertone, 
like  the  deep  notes  of  an  organ.  This  house 
Hazlewood  took  for  himself  and  his  little  boy. 
He   brought  with    him  the  faithful  old  nurse  who 

80 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


81 


became  also  his  housekeeper  and  ruled  his  estal)- 
lishment  for  him.  Hazlewood's  love  for  his  child 
became  the  one  piussioii  of  his  life.  So  completely 
had  it  mastered  him,  that  I  believe,  and  so  he  al- 
ways declared,  tfeit  he  left  the  world  with  its  gains 
and  applause  without  a  pang.  Of  that  other  love, 
the  love  for  his  wife,  which  at  one  time  had  been 
so  strong,  he  never  spoke.  I  think  it  never  re- 
turned. That  there  must  have  been  a  void  in 
his  heart,  I  do  not  doubt,  but  the  discovery  that 
she  loved  another  seemed  to  have  blighted  the 
love  instantly,  and  seared  into  numbness  the  spot 
where  it  had  been.  People  often  sjxiak  won- 
deringly  of  a  mother's  love  for  her  child,  they  look 
upon  it  as  the  height  of  devotion,  but  I  think  this 
is  a  mistake.  I  think  that  when  a  man  loves  his 
child,  he  loves  it  with  a  strength  and  intensity  of 
which  a  woman  can  have  no  idea.  I  grant  you 
that  such  cases  are  rare.  They  are  not  natural. 
Tliat  is  just  the  reason  why  the  love  is  so  absorb- 
ing. Affections  which  do  not  arise  from  natural 
instincts,  but  arc  the  result  of  pereonal  affinity  Ikv 
tween  individuals,  are  of  all  the  most  intense.  In 
tlic  bond  between  a  mother  and  child  this  higher 


82 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


■i 


■t 


i:['!/i 


(Mil  I  ^' 


love  is  frequently  superadded  to  the  natiu'al  ma- 
ternal and  filial  instinct,  and  the  relationship  is 
thereby  strengthened.  Most  of  us  have  known 
instances  in  which  a  grown  man's  love  for  his 
mother  has  been  so  full,  as  to  leave  no  room  for 
ordinary  conjugal  affection. 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  painful  in 
observing  Hazlewood's  devotion  to  his  child.  It 
was  too  absorbing,  it  gave  him  no  ease,  he  was  per- 
petually anxious  about  him.  It  was  the  one  bright 
spot  in  the  w^hole  world  to  him.  I  could  not  fail 
to  note  however  that  it  had  a  marvellous  effect 
upon  his  character.  Had  it  been  less  intense,  and 
more  reasonable,  more  healthy,  in  other  words,  and 
exerted  the  same  influence  over  him,  it  would  have 
been  only  an  unmixed  good.  It  gave  him  that 
which  his  nature  most  needed — a  continuous  im- 
pulse in  one  settled  direction.  It  supplied  that 
motive  power  which  he  had  lacked.  He  worked 
at  his  writing  regularly  now,  not  by  fits  and  starts 
as  hitherto.  He  was  less  carried  away  by  impulse, 
and  his  moods  were  subordinated  to  and  controlled 
by  love  for  his  child,  the  thought  of  his  boy's 
future,  and    anxiety    for  his    welfare.     But,  as   I 


liii 


ii'ii'ji'i 


ELTON  IIAZLEUOOD. 


83 


ma- 
lip  is 
:nown 
)r  bis 
om  for 


have  said,  this  love  was  too  strong,  too  imcontrol- 
able.  Hazlcwood  was  conscious  of  this,  as  he 
always  was  of  his  weak  points. 

"  I  love  that  child  too  much,"  he  said  to  me 
once.  "  It  is  very  wicked  of  me,  but  I  cannot 
help  it.  He  seems  to  me  to  take  the  place  of  God. 
I  never  feel  so  near  Heaven,  as  when  I  kneel  down 
with  him  at  night  by  his  bedside,  and  he  prays  in 
his  sweet  innocent  way  for  us  both.  In  fact,  I 
don^t  seem  to  feel  any  need  for  God  or  Heaven,  so 
so  long  as  I  have  the  love  of  him  to  guide  and 
console  and  purify  me." 

"  That  isn't  right,  Elton,  we  ought  to  love  our 
dear  ones  in  God,  and  only  in  subordination  to  our 
love  for  Him." 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  that ;  but  it  is  different 
with  you,  Harry.  You  have  your  wife  and  your 
home  and  your  little  children,  so  many  outlets  for 
your  affection.  I  have  one,  only  one.  You 
think  I  am  foolish  to  be  so  nervous  and  to  worr\ 
about  little  Elton  so  much,  don't  vou  ?  " 

"I  do,  rather." 

"  Harry,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  want  to  shock  you, 
but  do  you  know  what  my  child  is  to  me  ?    He  is 


:3  ;!■ 


84 


ELTON  UAZLBWOOD. 


li 


riuirx^wMM' 


the  one  anchor  which  holds  my  reason  firm  amid 
the  shocks  and  storms  of  seas  that  would  have 
borne  down  many  a  saner  man  to  horrible  ship- 
wreck. I  am  not  a  sane  man,  my  impulses  and 
passions  are  too  violent.  With  a  strong  love  for 
another  I  am  all  right,  but  without  that,  after 

what  has  passed,  without  that " he  hesitated 

as  he  uttered  these  words  and  his  eyes  had  an  ab- 
sent look ;  then  he  added  "  Harry,  let  us  change 
the  subject." 

Little  Elton  certainly  returned  his  father's  de- 
votion, and  as  he  grew  into  a  handsome  boy  the 
likeness  to  hi^  father  increased  almost  every  day. 
This  resemblance  was  not  merely  an  external  one ; 
it  stamped  equally  his  inner  mental  nature.  He 
had  the  same  quick  outbursts  of  intellectual  power, 
the  same  passionate  tenderness,  and  also  the  same 
weakness  of  moral  fibre  as  characterized  his  father. 
To  know  the  child  was  to  love  him,  and  to  love 
liim  was  to  sorrow  for  him,  to  be  filled  with  a 
painful  wonder. 

When  Hazlewood  has  run  up  to  town  for  a  day, 
I  have  often  taken  the  boy  with  my  little  ones 
along  the  sands  that  skirt  the  base  of  the  cliffs. 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


85 


At  such  times,  I  remember,  his  conversation  has 
surprised  me  beyond  measure ;  it  revealed  such  in- 
tense thought  and  imagination.  He  was  always 
glad  to  have  a  talk  with  me  as  a  clergyman,  when 
his  father  was  not  by  to  make  him  feel  bashful,  or 
reprove  him  for  his  inquisitiveness.  He  looked 
upon  me  as  the  people  of  Israel  looked  upon  the 
twelve  spies  after  their  return,  as  one  who  could 
give  minute  and  particular  information  of  the 
promised  land.  He  asked  me  one  day  if  there 
were  any  roofs  in  Heaven,  and  if  so  why  ?  because 
there  would  not  be  any  rain  or  cold  there.  Then 
he  wanted  to  know  how,  if  it  were  day  there  all 
the  time,  we  should  be  able  to  see  the  stars,  "  for  I 
like  to  look  at  the  stars,"  he  said.  He  wondered 
if  there  were  any  horses  there,  and  if  God  ever 
drove  out  with  grand  armies  and  processions,  as 
the  kings  do  in  his  story  books.  One  day,  he 
asked  me  if  he  had  any  mother.  He  had  asked 
Hannah  this  once,  he  said,  but  she  had  told  him 
not  to  ask  questions.  Of  coui'se  I  had  to  say  yes, 
and  tried  to  change  the  subject ;  but  he  was  not  to 
be  turned  off  in  this  way.  If  he  had  a  mother 
ought  not  he  to  pray  for  her,  as  my  little  boys  did 


I 


86 


ELTON  EAZLEWOOD. 


for  their  mother?  The  children  had  cvldentlv 
held  a  council  on  the  subject.  Then  he  wanted  to 
know  if  his  mother  would  go  to  Heaven,  and  if  he 
would  see  her  there.  We  had  a  surpliced  choir  at 
Beaconhurst  and  in  order  to  delight  Hazlewood,  I 
had  a  cassock  and  surplice  made  for  little  Elton,  as 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough,  and  he  regularly,  at 
the  morning  and  afternoon  services  on  Sunday,  led 
the  choir  into  the  chancel  from  the  vestry  under 
the  tower.  The  old  people  in  the  congregation 
would  turn  and  look  at  the  little  fellow  as  he  led 
the  way  up  the  aisle  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  mas- 
ter of  ceremonies,  his  grave  spirituelle  face  fixed 
earnestly  upon  the  altar,  and  his  dark  ringlets  fall- 
ing over  his  shoulders.  He  never  looked  to  the 
right  hand  or  to  the  left,  but  walked  on  slowly  to 
his  seat  which  was  next  to  mine.  Hazlewood  I 
know  used  to  be  in  ecstasies  over  his  little  white- 
robed  angel,  and  he  did  all  he  could  to  foster  the 
idea,  which  the  boy  had  himself  suggested,  that  he 
should  be  a  clergymen  when  he  grew  up.  But  the 
inherited  defect  in  the  little  fellow's  nature  did  not 
escape  the  anxious  father's  eyes,  and  many  a 
deep  musing  and  sleepless  night  did  the  symptoms 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


87 


of  it  cause  him.  But,  as  I  often  told  him,  it  is 
easy  to  correct  when  young  the  tendencies  of  a 
child^s  disposition.  A  wise  and  firm  governor  can 
bend  and  mould  them  to  what  is  good  and  noble, 
and  start  his  charge  fair  in  the  race  with  his  face 
to  the  goal.  "  No,  Harry,"  Elton  would  say, 
"  not  easily,  not  when  the  defect  is  a  deficiency ; 
only  God  in  his  future  guidance  through  life  can 
make  up  for  that.  You  may  train  and  cultivate  a 
child's  mind  but  you  cannot  supply  to  it  what  is 
not  thv  re."  I  do  not  suppose  that  I  could  fully 
sympathize  with  Hazlewood's  fears  as  a  father. 
My  chubby  little  ones,  dearly  as  I  loved  them, 
hardly  cost  me  one  anxious  moment.  But  his  na- 
ture was  deeper  than  mine  and  he  could  therefore 
read  more  deeply  into  that  of  his  boy.  However, 
in  spite  of  care  and  occasional  gloomy  forebodings, 
that  period,  all  too  short,  in  which  Hazlewood  and 
his  boy  were  our  close  neighbours,  was  an  exceed- 
ingly happy  one.  To  be  sure,  there  always 
loomed  up  in  the  background  that  temble  skel- 
eton which  we  felt  was  never  far  off  although  we 
did  not  allude  to  it.  Hazlewood  was  an  exquisite 
rider  and  as  he  kept  two  horses,  I  often  accom- 


:'i!i 
1 


f 


ici/iiitiiii'^'iffiiii'a 


iiiii^^ 


88 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


panied  him  in  delightful  excursions  to  places  in 
the  neighbourhood.  The  motion  and  excitement 
of  riding,  no  matter  in  what  mood  he  had  startal 
out,  .would  soon  throw  his  spirits  into  the  maddest 
joy.  I  have  often  pulled  in  my  horse  after  a 
gallop  and  watched  him  ride  madly  on,  and  then 
turn  and  come  back  to  me,  his  cheeks  flushed,  his 
eyes  dancing  with  sheer  animal  glee,  and  his  face 
radiant  as  it  had  been  at  school.  He  rose  early 
and  generally  did  his  writing  for  the  day  before 
breakfast.  He  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  in 
reading,  and  the  afternoons  he  gave  to  his  boy, 
while  the  evenings  were  usually  passed  with  me 
either  at  his  house  or  mine,  where  my  dear  wife 
ever  made  him  a  welcome  guest.  It  was  ver}- 
rarely  that  we  did  not  see  him  every  day.  Once 
two  days  passed  without  his  coming  to  the  Vicar- 
age. I  was  very  busy  at  the  time  and  so  did  not 
notice  his  absence,  but  my  wife,  with  feminine  in- 
stinct, divined  that  something  was  wrong,  and  so  at 
her  instigation,  on  the  second  day  I  walked  over 
the  fields  to  Hazlewood  Castle,  as  we  used  to  play- 
ftilly  call  my  friend's  house. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  of  an  afternoon  in  the 


|r  Hijlliiiiilllllfl:: 


iiii 


iiiliii 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


89 


early  part  of  September.  The  air  was  clear  and 
cool.  I  heard  the  children's  voices,  the  clink  of  the 
blacksmith's  hammer,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  other 
sounds  from  the  little  village  which  lay  in  a  hol- 
low beyond  the  church  and  was  now  obscured  from 
view  save  for  a  few  roofs  and  chimneys  with  their 
wreaths  of  blue  curling  smoke.  Hazlewood,  I 
found,  was  not  at  home,  but  Mrs.  Hannah  told 
me  she  thought  that  he  was  out  on  "  the  point.'' 
The  point  was  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff  on  which 
the  castle  stood.  It  was  a  slight  plateau  of  grass 
and  ferns,  which  overhung  the  cliif,  and  was 
reached  by  a  zigzag  path  about  twenty  feet  in 
descent.  In  olden  times  it  had  evidently  been 
used  as  a  place  of  signalling,  and  had  given  the 
name  of  Beaconhurst  to  the  village.  Hazlewood 
was  lying  on  the  grass,  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  glorious  pm'ple 
and  gold  mists  that  hid  the  distant  shores  of 
France.  He  did  not  hear  me  come,  and  started 
when  he  saw  me.  His  eyes  were  sad  and  his 
features  looked  haggard. 
"  Ah,''  he  said,  as  I  came,  "  who  told  you  ?  " 
"  Told  me  what  ?     I  don't  know  anything.     I 


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90 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOJ). 


i'ii!;         ,„ 

i  I'-l!::!'!! 


only  came  to  see  why  you  had  not  been  over  to 
our  house  for  two  whole  days ;  my  wife  feared  you 
might  be  ill." 

"  It  was  very  good  of  her  to  think  of  me.  No, 
it  was  not  that — something  else." 

He  paused;  and  I  sat  on  the  grass  beside  him 
and  waited,  without  speaking,  looking  at  the  sea 
which  lay  at  our  feet.  Presently  he  said,  "  Harry, 
look  out  over  there."  He  pointed  with  his  hand 
to  the  purple  mists  before  us,  which  were  dulling 
into  gray,  while  the  streaks  of  water  beneath  them 
were  a  translucent  and  fairy  green.  "  Over  there, 
beyond  those  mists,  miles  away,  there  is  a  grave ; 
some  one  I  was  once  very  proud  of  and  loved  bet- 
ter than  anything  else  in  the  whole  world,  lies  in 
it.  She  died  last  week  in  childbirth.  I  only 
heard  yesterday.  Don't  ask  me  any  more.  She 
is  dead  to  me  now,  forever,  forever." 

He  turned  over  and  hid  his  face  down  under 
the  long  tufts  of  grass.  I  felt  that  even  my  pres- 
ence was  an  intrusion,  so  I  crept  noiselessly  away, 
and  my  wife  and  I  kept  the  secret  to  ourselves. 
When  we  next  saw  Hazlewood,  the  traces  of  a 
shadow  were  still  over  him,  but  he  appeared  to  be 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


91 


jusfc  the  same  as  before;  and  soon  the  incident 
passed  fix)m  our  ordinary  thoughts. 

But  the  deepest  lines  which  the  chisel  of  God 
grayed  upon  his  heart  and  soul,  and  which  fixed 
the  permanent  expression  of  that  souPs  life,  were 
not  made  then  but  after.  It  was  the  February 
after,  and  a  wild,  dark  February  it  was.  Never 
have  I  experienced  such  winds  and  storms  or  heard 
the  sea  so  boisterous.  Many  sad  hearts  there  were 
along  the  coast,  for  almost  every  mail  brought  its 
tidings  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  There  was 
much  sickness  too  in  the  parish,  for  the  Winter 
had  been  a  warm  and  unhealthy  one,  and  all 
contagious  diseases  showed  a  tendency  to  become 
epidemic.  A  kind  of  low  fever  had  broken  out  in 
the  place,  and  my  children  had  been  down  with  it, 
but  thanks  to  my  dear  wife's  motherly  watchfiil- 
ness,  the  little  ones  had  all  recovered. 

The  fifteenth  of  February  was  little  Elton's 
seventh  birthday.  He  had  been  an  exception  to 
the  general  run  of  the  children  in  the  parish,  and 
bad  escaped  all  illness  during  the  Winter.  His 
father  took  every  possible  care  of  him,  and  he  had 
not  been  allowed  to  come  near  our  house  for  over 


92 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


I !:  ■'-: 


i  i 


\M 


a  month,  nor  did  our  children  go  to  see  him. 
But  his  birthday,  his  fatlier  told  me,  would  be 
nothing  to  him  unless  I  went  up  and  had  dinner 
at  the  castle,  in  place  of  the  party  which  was 
usually  given  to  celebrate  the  event. 

The  clouds  were  dark  and  lowering,  and  the 
evening  strangely  still,  as  I  started  off  to  the  six 
o'clock  dinner.  Hazlewood  had  not  yet  returned 
from  riding,  but  on  my  entering  the  hall,  little 
Elton  looked  down  at  me  from  the  curving  stair- 
case, and  putting  his  face  through  a  hole  in  the 
bannisters,  called  out : 

"  Is  that  you,  Uucle  HaiTy  ?  I'm  so  glad  you 
have  come.  Daddy  has  given  me  a  pony,  a  real, 
live  pony,  that  I  am  to  learn  to  ride.  Come  out 
to  the  stable  and  see  him." 

I  thought  I  had  never  seen  so  sweet  a  boyish 
face,  save  perhaps  one,  and  that  long  ago  at  school. 
His  cheeks  were  dushed  with  the  deepest  rose,  and 
his  eyes  were  unusually  large  and  brilliant.  He 
WES  dressed  in  a  new  tight-fitting  velvet  suit,  with 
wide  lace  collar,  and  with  his  dark  wavy  hair 
looked  like  a  sweet  little  boy  courtier  from  the 
canvass  of  Vandyke.     I  went  to  the  stable  with 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


98 


him  and  saw  the  new  Shetland.  It  was  a  perfect 
beauty,  and  I  promised  to  let  him  often  accompany 
lis  when  his  father  and  I  went  out  together.  The 
dinner  was  little  Elton's,  so  the  evening  was  given 
up  to  his  amusement,  and  we  two  old  boys  romped 
with  him  afterwards,  and  even  condescended  to 
take  off  our  coats  and  wrestle  together  for  his 
gratification.  I  was  also,  as  a  great  treat  for  him, 
taken  up-stairs  to  the  little  room  adjoining  his 
father's,  and  acted  as  a  sort  of  superintending 
chamberlain  as  he  undressed  and  said  his  prayers 
and  got  into  bed.  Hazlewood  and  I  then  went 
down  to  the  library,  and  while  we  smoked,  talked 
over  old  times  and  the  days  when  we  were  boys, 
which  now  appeared  to  us  so  like  a  dream.  The 
next  morning  Hazlewood  was  not  at  church,  and 
in  the  afterooon  one  of  the  servants  from  the  Castle 
told  me  that  Master  Elton  was  very  ill.  She  said 
he  had  been  "  taken  bad  "  in  the  night.  I  did  not 
think  it  was  very  serious  and  jokingly  sent  him 
word  that  he  had  eaten  too  much  birthday  cake, 
and  that  I  should  have  to  go  up  to  him  with  my 
medicine  chest.  About  half-past  one  o'clock,  at 
night,  however,  I  was  roused  by  a  loud  knocking 


94 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


at  the  door,  the  bell  had  been  broken  by  a  deaf, 
old  parishioner  in  the  afternoon.  I  went  down  and 
to  my  surprise  found  the  visitor  was  old  Dr.  Jack- 
son, the  village  doctor. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  he  said  "  but  I 
have  very  serious  news  for  you ;  poor  Hazlewood's 
little  boy  has  diphtheria." 

"Diphtheria?" 

"  Yes,  a  very  bad  case,  in  fact  all  but  a  hopeless 
ease.  I  don't  think  he  can  possibly  get  over  it. 
The  disease  has  developed  so  rapidly  and  taken 
such  hold  of  his  constitution.  I  wish  you  would  go 
up  to  his  father.  He  seems  stunned  and  cannot 
realize  the  seriousness  of  the  case." 

Not  many  minutes  passed  ere  I  was  standing  in 
the  wind  and  rain  before  Hazlewood's  door.  The 
house  was  brilliantly  lit  up  and  when  I  entered  I 
found  that  the  servants  were  evidently  in  terrible 
consternation.  Upstairs,  in  the  little  room,  Hazle- 
wood  was  sitting  by  the  bed  holding  his  child's 
burning  hand.  The  boy  was  asleep,  and  lay  with 
bis  head  far  back  on  the  pillow,  his  hair  all  tossed, 
and  one  deep  fiery  spot,  about  the  size  of  a  crown, 
on  each  cheek.     His  throat  was  terribly  swollen, 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


95 


a  deaf, 
own  and 
>r.  Jack- 

[  «  but  I 
dewood's 


El  hopeless 
;t  over  it. 
md  taken 
I  would  go 
hd  cannot 

tanding  in 
oor.     The 
entered  I 
in  terrible 
>ni,  Hazle- 
his  child's 
d  lay  with 
all  tossed, 
)f  a  crown, 
swollen, 


and  I  had  heard  the  sound  of  his  breathing  as  I 
ascended  the  stairs.  His  face  wore  a  troubled, 
pained  look,  and  the  lids  of  his  large  dark  eyes 
were  slightly  open,  and  showed  the  whites  under- 
neath. Elton  turned  towards  me  as  I  came  in, 
but  his  face  was  a  riddle  to  me.  He  did  not  look 
like  himself.  He  looked  hard  and  defiant,  but  not 
worn  or  anxious. 

"  Well,  Harry,  did  the  doctor  tell  you  to  come  ? 
He  is  a  perfect  old  woman  ;  the  child  is  better,  he 
sleeps.  You  should  have  seen  how  bad  he  was 
this  afternoon ;  but  now  the  crisis  is  past,  I  know 
it  is.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  have  watched  Elton, 
so  careftdly  all  these  years  and  not  known  how  ill- 
ness affects  him  ?  He  goes  down  very  rapidly,  and 
then  turns  a  comer  and  comes  up  again,  just  as 
rapidly.  I  am  never  anxious  about  him,  when  he 
has  these  attacks,  because  I  have  watched  him  too 
narrowly,  and  I  know  what  to  expect.  A  stranger 
might  be,  who  did  not  know  him." 

All  this  was  whispered  out  to  me  in  broken  sen- 
tences, his  head  turning  between  each  towards  the 
pained  little  face  on  the  piUow.     "  If  it  were  some 


;,.., 


96 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


r^ular  disease,  the  course  of  which  I  did  not  under- 
stand, I  should  be  more  disturbed." 

"  Did  not  the  doctor  tell  you  what  it  was?"  I 
asked. 

"No,  he  said  he  could  not  say  to-night,  he 
would  be  able  to  tell  better  in  the  morning." 

There  was  a  pause ;  the  little  fellow  moaned  in 
his  sleep. 

Then  Elton  turned  to  me  and  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  my  face,  said : 

"  Did  he  tell  you  what  it  was  ?" 

Generally  speaking,  I  tell  the  truth,  but  then  the 
devil  of  fear  got  the  better  of  me  and  I  could  not 
utter  the  truth,  or  even  half  the  truth.  I  cleared 
my  throat  a  little,  and  told  a  deliberate  falsehood. 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"That's  a  lie,  Harry,"  said  Hazlewood,  still 
watching  me  narrowly  ;  "  Thank  you  for  it,  but  it's 
a  lie.  He  did  tell  you.  He  told  you  that  it  was 
diphtheria,  and  that  he  would  not  get  over  it ;  I  read 
it  in  your  face.  Don't  deny  it.  I  have  known 
the  dreadful  truth  all  day  but  could  not  face  it." 

"  O,  Elton,  my  dear  old  fellow,  put  your  trust 
in  God." 


w 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


97 


"  I  do,  Harry,  I  have  no  one  else  but  you  and 
God  now." 

"  Put  God's  name  first,  Elton." 

He  pressed  his  lips  tightly  and  turned  his  pale 
face  towards  the  bed.  I  tried  to  say  something  to 
comfort  him,  but  I  could  not,  my  voice  choked  me, 
my  head  throbbed  and  I — I,  God's  minister,  struck 
with  sheer  madness  of  sorrow  at  his  awful  calm- 
ness, stole  into  the  next  room  and  sobbed  like  a 
child. 

All  that  night,  at  brief  intervals,  the  little  fellow 
would  wake  and  cry  out  for  his  father,  whom  in 
his  delirium  he  fancied  was  far  away.  His  rav- 
ings were  all  about  the  angels  and  the  church  and 
Heaven.  And  once,  about  four  o'clock,  he  awoke 
from  a  longer  sleep  than  usual  and  called  three 
times  for  his  mother, "  Mamma,  Mamma,  Mamma, 
oh,  where  have  they  put  my  Mamma  ?" 

Hazlewood  bent  over  him. 

"  Here  is  Daddie,  darling,  you  are  all  right. 
Do  you  want  anything  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  my  Mamma." 

Then  he  fell  to  rambling  about  other  things, 
more  or  less  incoherently,  but  the  incident  revealed 


I?l- 


iWi 


98 


ELTON  HAZLEWQOD. 


the  sorrow  and  questionings  wh'^h  bad  lain  liid- 
den  all  this  time  in  the  child's  heart.     I  was  glad 
that,  as  I   had  gone  to  a  table  to  wet  a  clotli 
with  cologne  and   water,  my   back   was    turned 
to  Hazlewood  when  it  happened.     The  only  sign 
Elton  gave  that  he  felt  this  new  wound  was  a 
deep  sigh  like  a  sob,  "  O,  God  help  me,"  so  low 
that  I  could  not  be  said  to  have  heard  it,  I  over- 
heard it.     On  the  next  day  the  boy  rallied  slightly, 
but  in  the  afternoon  grew  worse  again.     A  Lon- 
don physician  had  been  sent  for  and  had  confirmed 
our  worst  fears.     Hazlewood  now  knew  that  the 
case  was  hopeless,  but  he  bore  up  without  a  teai*, 
never  leaving  the  child's  side  and  suffering  no  one 
to  touch  him  but  himself.     All  that  night  and  the 
next  the  fever  raged  and  the  disease  pursued  its 
dreadful  course,  till  on  the  fourth  day,  early  in  the 
morning,  I  was  sent  for  to  go  to  the  castle  and 
specially  requested  to  bring  the  Communion  ves- 
sels with  me.     On  entering  the  child's  room,  I 
found  him  choking,  but  he  was  perfectly  sensible, 
and  I  could  distinctly  understand   his  whispers, 
which  came  slowly  and  in  gasps. 

"  Uncle  Harry,  I  want  the  Bread,  the  Bread  of 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


99 


Heaven.  I  am  going  there,  I  am  very  weak,  I 
cannot  take  any  food.     Give  me  the  Communion." 

"  You  could  not  swallow  it,  dear,  I  am  afraid. 
It  would  not  be  right  when  you  can't  swallow. 
Jesus  is  the  Bread  of  Heaven  and  He  will  feed 
you  Himself  when  you  go  to  Him." 

"  Uncle,"  then  came  a  gasp,  "  don't  they  always 
have  it,  tliey,  dying  people,  I  mean,  don't  they  al- 
ways have  it  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  not  when  they  can't  swallow." 

Then  a  bright  thought  flashed  upon  me. 

"But  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  Your 
father  and  I  will  take  it  for  you.  I  will  put  on 
my  surplice  and  we  shall  have  the  service  just  as 
we  do  in  church." 

"  Daddie,"  he  gasped,  looking  for  his  father,  and 
liis  eyes  closed  from  sheer  exhaustion,  then  they 
opened  and  he  said,  "  Daddie,  lay  my  surplice  over 
me  too." 

His  father  went  to  a  closet  and  fetched  it,  and 
spread  it  out  over  him,  hiding  all  but  the  swollen, 
suffering  face,  on  which  death  had  already  cast  his 
shadow.  Then  in  the  grey  of  the  morning  we  had 
Communion,  the  sweetest  and  solenmest  I  ever  re- 


100 


ELTON  BAZLEWOOD, 


i'w 


wi 


member.  Hazlewood  knelt  by  the  bedside  hold- 
ing the  child's  hand  still.  The  little  fellow  had 
shut  his  eyes  and  his  breathing  was  painful  to 
listen  to,  but  he  seemed  to  be  full  of  a  strange  and 
heavenly  peace,  and  to  be  wholly  conscious  of  what 
was  going  on.  We  had  each  communicated  and 
I  had  just  begun  the  "Gloria  in  Excelsis," 
"  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest  and  on  earth  peace, 
good  will  towards  men,"  when  the  little  fellow's 
face  suddenly  changed,  a  convulsive  tremour  shook 
his  frame,  he  choked  slightly,  then  curled  himself 
back,  and  his  breathing  stopped.  In  an  instant 
Elton  had  jumped  up,  and  before  I  could  divine 
his  intention,  he  had  put  his  mouth  to  the  child's 
mouth  and  tried  to  force  air  into  the  lungs  and 
break  the  membrane  which  filled  the  throat.  But 
it  was  of  no  avail ;  the  Spirit  had  gone.  The 
Heavenly  Host  who  had  but  now  filled  th^  room 
in  adoration  of  the  Divine  Presence,  had  born  it 
back  with  them  to  the  bosom  of  the  God  who  gave 
it. 

The  servants,  all  but  old  Mrs.  Hannah,  who 
was  prostrate  with  grief,  had  left  the  house,  so 
Elton  and  I,  robing  the  sweet  child's  form  in  the 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


101 


snowy  surplice,  fittest  emblem  of  its  innocence, 
with  our  own  hands,  laid  it  in  the  rough  deal 
coffin,  which  was  all  that  the  village  could  supply 
at  so  short  a  notice.  The  undertaker  would  not 
come  near  the  house,  so,  as  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  have  kept  the  body  longer,  the  doctor 
and  I  bore  out  the  little  coffin  to  the  churchyard 
at  sunset  on  that  very  aflemoon.  Hazlewood, 
pallid  and  broken  down,  and  evidently  sickening 
for  the  disease,  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak,  Lis  face 
muffled  in  a  wide  black  scarf,  followed  slowly,  as 
chief  and  only  mourner. 


i 


Ill; 
i.:r 


Ill^'i' 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

npHROUGH  long  nights  and  days  my  wife  and 
-*-  I  and  good  old  Mrs.  Hannah  watched  in  tuni 
at  the  bedside  of  my  friend.  The  delirium  which 
at  first  had  been  very  severe,  gradually  abated  and 
was  succeeded  by  terrible  and  tedious  prostration. 
Gi-adually,  however,  strength  returned  to  the 
wasted  form.  But  little  by  little,  as  Hazlewood 
regained  a  measure  of  his  former  health,  it  became 
apparent  that  a  change  had  passed  over  him. 
During  the  weeks  of  convalescence,  while  he  lay 
back  in  his  bed  with  his  face  turned  to  the  grand 
view  of  sea  and  sky  which  his  window  afforded, 
his  spirit  seemed  to  be  passing  through  a  transfor- 
mation as  extraordinary  as  it  was  radical.  He 
spoke  little,  scarcely  ever,  unless  addressed  by 
others.  He  was  wonderfully  patient  and  gentle. 
He  did  not  appear  to  be  lonely,  when  left  by  him- 
self, and  though  he  seldom  joined  in  it,  he  never 
seemed  to  be  disturbed  or  annoyed  by  the  conver- 

102 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


103 


sation  of  his  attendants.  He  never  referred  to  the 
past,  and  sometimes  my  wife  and  I  have  wondered 
if  it  were  at  all  clear  to  him.  That  it  was,  we  dis- 
covered later.  When  he  was  well  enough  to  go 
out,  I  used  to  take  him  for  short  walks  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  castle.  He  tottered  like  an 
old  man  and  felt  so  slight  as  he  leant  upon  my 
arm.  One  dreaded  excursion  passed  off  quite 
otherwise  than  I  had  expected,  I  mean  the  first 
visit  to  his  boy's  grave.  We  went  there  one  after- 
noon in  the  end  of  May.  The  churchyard  was 
looking  its  best,  the  birds  were  full  of  music,  and 
the  scent  of  the  fresh  leaves  and  flowers  was  de- 
lightful. Little  Elton's  grave  had  been  lovingly 
tended  by  my  wife,  and  v/as  prettily  arranged  with 
forget-me-nots  and  heartsease  down  its  centre  in 
the  form  of  three  Maltese  crosses.  Elton  was  evi- 
dently pleased  to  find  it  in  this  condition.  He 
knelt  beside  it  and  I  turned  away,  so  as  not  to 
hear  the  sobs  that  shook  his  being.  After  a  short 
time  he  rose  slowly  and  came  and  took  my  arm, 
and  we  strolled  up  and  down  the  wide  gravel  path 
in  front  of  the  Church. 
He  was  quite  calm  then. 


Ml. 


104 


ELTON  BAZLEWOOD, 


!,.■-■ 'i 


It  ::-i;  ■  m 


Kill 


mm 
mm 


"What  an  inscrutable  mystery  it  all  is!"  he 
said.  "What  is  life?  What  is  death?  Why 
cannot  that  poor  child  under  there  answer,  as  he 
once  did,  to  my  call  ?  Why  cannot  his  little  eyes 
open  and  look  up  into  mine  and  his  arms  be 
thrown  round  my  neck?  There  the  little  body 
lies  out  in  the  cold  and  damp  earth,  the  body  that 
I  guarded  so  carefully  and  loved  so  distractedly. 
I  wonder  if  the  ancients  loved  their  families  as  we 
love  ours.  I  think  not.  I  think  Christianity  has 
intensified,  as  it  has  purified  our  domestic  affec- 
tions. The  cultivation  of  the  emotional  side  of 
man's  nature  in  religion  has  developed  its  sensibil- 
ity and  its  need  of  love.  Some  people  may  think 
this  is  not  to  be  commended.  They  deplore  the 
deterioration  of  the  physical  constitution  of  man, 
which,  t>  a  large  extent  the  development  of  his 
nervous  organization  implies.  Over-sensitiveness 
certainly  is  to  be  deplored,  as  being  incompatible 
with  a  condition  of  health,  but  we  must  remember 
that  science  is  more  and  more  making  life  and 
health  possible  to  mental  organizations  so  fine  and 
sensitive,  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
them  to  have  endured  existence  under  the  rough 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


105 


as  he 

ie  eyes 

ms  be 

1  body 

ly  that 

ictedly. 

3  as  we 

lity  has 

c  affec- 

side  of 

^ensibil- 

y  think 

Lore  the 
f  man, 
of  his 

[tiveness 
ipatible 

[member 
ife  and 

Ifine  and 
iible  for 
e  rough 


conditions  of  old.  Evolution  in  man,  having 
brought  his  body  to  a  certain  degree  of  perfection, 
now  acts  along  the  line  of  mental  and  emotional 
progress.  Man  is  daily  becoming  more  man,  more 
spiritual.  It  is  the  work  of  God,  and  the  revel- 
ation of  God's  Son  has  helped  it  on.  Some  think 
that  evolution  contradicts  the  doctrine  of  design  in 
nature ;  I  cannot  see  it.  I  would  illustrate  the 
gradual  accomplishment  of  God's  purposes  in  nature 
by  the  course  of  a  stream  down  the  face  of  a  hill. 
The  water  does  not  flow  directly  to  its  goal  in  the 
valley  below,  as  it  would  were  it  poured  down 
through  the  air.  No,  it  runs  here  and  there  into 
little  crevices  in  the  earth,  skirting  each  obstruction, 
filling  tiny  lakes,  which  are  no  sooner  filled  than 
abandoned,  until  in  time  the  end  of  its  course  is 
attained,  and  the  stream  is  finally  absorbed  into 
the  grand  river  at  the  base.  Through  it  all,  how- 
ever, even  when  the  stream  went  this  way  and 
that,  the  impelling  force  was  that  of  gravitation 
which  acted  downwards  in  a  straight  line.  So, 
from  the  beginning  of  time,  there  has  been  a  con- 
stant flowing  on  of  created  life  through  nature  to- 
wards some  goal  which  is  the  fulfillment  of  God's 


106 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOP. 


it:: 


III  .:  i  ■ 


!!|li:|^"^:-i^ 


purpose.  There  have  been  obstacles  in  its  course 
which  hindered  its  direct  advance ;  there  have  been 
wide,  deep  lakes,  in  which  no  advance  has  been 
apparent  for  long  periods ;  there  have  been  smooth 
and  steep  declines  where  progress  was  made  with  a 
bound,  but  in  whatever  way  the  evolution  pro- 
ceeded, the  impelling  force  was  the  will  of  God 
acting  in  a  straight  line  through  nature.  What 
hope  this  gives  us  for  ourselves,  for  the  whole  race  ! 
How  it  keeps  us  in  time  with  the  forward  march 
of  thought !  And  when  we  have  this  hope,  we  can 
work  quietly  and  contentedly  and  suffer  patiently 
under  the  dispensations  of  God.  Yes,  we  are 
not  a  worn-out  race,  battering  vainly  with  stunted 
strength  against  the  bars  which  inexorable  law  has 
set  round  man's  domain,  but  a  race  still  in  child- 
hood,  still  pressing  on  to  the  unknown  and  the 
ideal,  to  the  fulfillment  of  our  hopes,  the  attain- 
ment of  our  highest  aspirations. 


"  Yes,  on  we  press,  forever  on 

Through  death  to  other  deaths  and  life, 
To  brighter  lights  when  these  are  gone 
To  broader  thought,  more  glorious  strife. 


)iirse 
been 
been 
lootli 
jiiha 
pro- 
•  God 
What 
!  race ! 
inarch 
we  can 
Ltiently 
ye  are 
stunted 
aw  has 
child-- 
d  the 
attain- 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 

To  vistas  opening  out  of  these, 
To  wonders  shining  from  afar, 

Above  the  surging  of  the  seas. 
Above  the  course  of  sun  and  star. 

To  higher  powers  of  will  and  deed, 
All  bounds,  all  limits  left  behind, 

To  truths  undreamt  in  any  creed. 
To  deeper  love  more  Godlike  mind. 

Great  God,  we  move  into  the  vast, 
All  questions  vain — the  shadows  come, 

We  hear  no  answer  from  the  past. 
The  years  before  us  all  are  dumb. 

We  trust  thy  purpose  and  thy  wiU, 
We  see  afar  the  shining  goal, 

Forgive  us,  if  there  linger  still 
Some  human  fear  within  the  soul. 

Forgive  us,  if  with  thoughts  too  wild 
And  eyes  too  dim  to  pierce  the  gloom 

We  shudder  liko  a  frightened  child 
That  enters  at  a  darkened  room. 

Forgive  us,  if  when  dies  away. 
All  human  sound  upon  our  ears. 

We  hear  not  in  the  swift  decay 
Thy  loving  voice  to  calm  our  fears. 

But  lo,  the  dawn  of  fuller  days. 

Horizon  glories  fringe  the  sky, 
Our  feet  would  climb  the  shining  ways 

To  meet  man's  widest  destiny." 


107 


4m 


108 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


I 


ir- 


■*\ 


'iM   m 


"  Yes,  that  is  life,  and  that  is  death — progress, 
progress.  It  is  hard  to  see  it  now,  the  gloom  is 
very  deep,  but  we  shall  see  more  clearly  some  day. 
In  that  white  morning  when,  side  by  side  you  and 
I,  and  hand  in  hand  that  sweet  child  and  I,  stand 
among  the  risen  dead,  in  the  world  that  is  to  be, 
no  clouds  will  obscure  our  perfect  vision.  HaiTy," 
he  said,  suddenly  breaking  off,  "  I  have  a  great 
favour  to  ask  of  you." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  you  know  it  will  be  granted 
as  soon  as  you  make  it,  if  it  is  in  my  power  to  do 


» 


so. 

"  I  know  that,  but  I  hesitate  to  make  it." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  will  it  be  very  hard  to 
grant?" 

"  I  don't  know,  there  may  be  a  struggle  in  your 
mind  between  your  sense  of  right  and  your  desire 
to  do  me  a  favour.     Promise  me  one  thing  first." 

«  What  is  that  ?" 

"  That  if  you  don't  think  it  is  wise  or  right,  or 
even  convenient  to  do  what  I  ask,  you  will  not  try 
to  do  it." 

"  All  right,  I  can  easily  promise  that." 

"  Then  I — no,  I  cannot  ask  it,  I  will  write  you 


"•r 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


109 


ogress, 
oom  is 
le  day. 
ou  and 
[,  stand 
LS  to  be, 
Harry," 
a  great 

5  granted 
ver  to  do 

t." 


a  letter  in  explanation.  If  you  don't  like  my 
proposition,  just  put  my  letter  in  the  fire  and  say 
no  more  about  it." 

I  left  Hazlewood  at  his  house,  and  returned  to 
do  some  parish  work  in  the  village.  The  next 
morning  at  church,  I  found  a  letter  for  me  in  my 
friend's  handwriting  on  the  vestry  table.  After 
service,  shutting  the  doors  in  the  quaint  old  room, 
that  I  might  be  undisturbed,  I  broke  the  seal  and 
read  it.     It  ran  as  follows : 


"  My  dear  oldJeUow. 

I  could  not  tell  you  what  was  in  my  mind  this 
afternoon  for  two  reasons.  First,  because  I  experience  great 
difficulty  in  opening  up  to  another  the  inner  workings  of  the 
soul,  and  I  have  an  objection  on  principle  to  doing  so ;  and 
secondly,  because  my  broaching  the  matter  in  conversation 
would  have  made  your  conscientious  refusal  of  my  request 
more  trying  to  you.  I  am  going  to  put  my  whole  case  before 
you  now  quite  fully,  and  I  shall  accept  your  decision  as  final. 
Perhaps  you  may  have  noticed  and  yet  very  likely  you  may 
not,  that  a  change  has  passed  over  me.  Something  has  made 
me  a  different  man.  It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  write  this,  it 
sounds  so  methodistical  and  presumptuous,  but  you  will  under- 
stand my  motive.  That  which  has  made  mv  different,  is  the 
realizing,  as  I  have  never  realized  before,  the  Incarnation  of 
God  the  Son — *  The  Word  was  made  Flesh!  During  those 
terrible  hours  of  pain  and  mental  anguish,  into  which  God  in 
his  mercy  plunged  me,  the  truth  flashed  upon  me  with  start- 


ill 


hm 


no 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


Wik' 


la 


ling  force.  I  believe  that  but  for  it  I  should  have  lost  my 
reason.  Night  after  night,  when  sleep  would  not  come,  and  I 
have  turned  and  turned  and  found  no  bodily  ease,  those 
wonderful  words  have  given  me  comfort.  When  all  was  dark 
and  my  weak  mind  borne  hither  and  thither  on  currents  of 
thought  which  set  on  all  sides  towards  the  encompassing  sea 
of  despair,  the  only  safety  my  reason  found,  was  to  cling  to 
the  cradle  of  Jesus,  and  to  kneel  in  imagination  between  8t. 
Mary  and  St.  Joseph  as  they  looked  down  upon  the  face  of 
the  Holy  Child.  In  that  cradle  there  was  man,  there  was 
human  love,  human  emotion,  and  there  was  God.  It  was  all 
a  fact,  it  was  a  rock  on  which  to  anchor  the  soul  amid  the 
storm.  I  could  face  death  fearlessly  from  such  a  vantage 
ground.  Then  as  I  grew  stronger  the  personal  love  of  Jesus 
filled  me  with  a  restful  joy,  a  joy  and  peace  it  had  never  been 
mine  to  know.  I  see  now  how  God  has  led  me  in  the  past, 
from  the  world  and  self  up  to  the  higher  love  of  my  child, 
which  concentrated  all  my  thoughts  and  inconstant  impulses 
into  one  strong,  settled  passion ;  and  now  I  can  see  how,  by 
bereavement,  he  has  lifted  my  heart  to  a  love  higher  and 
holier  still — the  love  of  Himself,  who  cannot  pass  away,  but  is 
the  same  yesterday,  to-day  and  forever.  Divine  love  does 
not  preclude  earthly  love,  when  pure  and  good,  it  intensifies 
it,  it  takes  away  the  sting  which  must  be  in  it  to  those  who 
look  for  no  life  beyond  death.  How  wonderfully  true  St. 
Augustine's  words  are,  *  The  soul  of  man  can  find  no  true  rest 
till  it  rests  in  God.'  I  have  found  that  rest  now,  and  by 
God's  grace  and  transforming  power  I  mean  to  try  and  keep 
it.  Please  forgive  me  again  for  writing  so  egotistically.  Now 
let  me  make  my  request.  It  is  that  you  should  write  for  me 
to  the  Bishop  and  influence  him  to  ordain  me,  and  then  let 
me  live  here  and  work  with  you  as  your  curate.  At  one 
time,  I  had  thought  seriously  of  taking  orders,  but  I  was  not 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


Ill 


fit  then.  God  has  prepared  me  for  it  since.  Now,  I  think,  I 
could  give  my  heart  unreservedly  to  Him,  and  spend  the 
closing  years  of  my  life  cheerfully  in  his  service.  If  only  I 
had  been  able  to  overcome  that  fatal  weakness  and  irresolu- 
tion in  my  character,  which  first  led  me  into  sin,  and  then  led 
to  the  rejection  of  the  divine  call,  and  if  I  had  been  able,  like 
you,  to  serve  God  from  the  first,  how  different  my  life  would 
have  been.  But  there  is  no  use  in  vain  regrets.  I  have  suf- 
fered, and  shall  still  suffer,  for  the  past.  If  I  work  with  you, 
you  will  find  me  obedient  and  loyal,  for  as  you  must  know,  I 
owe  you  more  than  I  can  express  in  words.  I  leave  the 
matter  entirely  in  your  hands,  and  if  you  approve,  do  you  set 
it  all  before  the  Bishop.  You  must  weigh  carefully  the 
reasons  for  and  against  my  proposition,  but  if  you  can  take  it 
up,  it  will  be  the  beginning  of  a  new  life  to  me. 

Ever  your  affectionate  friend, 

Elton  Hazlewood. 

I  read  this  letter  twice  and  thanked  God  for  the 

marvellous  workings  of  His  providence.    Then  with 

heart  overjoyed,  I  almost  ran  through  the  spring 

:  fields  up  to  the  castle,  bearing  my  unwritten  answer 

in  the  very  gladness  of  my  face. 


•Ill 


III 


!    H 


Ilii;;,. 


! 

9  i  .V 


ll|l!|ifl!: 


*T, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

rilHE  five  years  of  his  dia«onate  which  Hazle- 
-*-  wood  spent  with  me  as  curate,  were  without 
exception  the  happiest  of  my  life.  A  fellowship  of 
sentiment  and  aim,  such  as  nothing  but  union  of 
religious  thought  and  work  can  give,  drew  our 
hearts  together  in  yet  stronger  bonds  of  love.  The 
people  of  the,  parish  almost  worshipped  him.  No 
trouble  was  too  great  for  him.  In  sickness  aiid  in 
health  he  was  their  friend  and  guide,  but  it  was  in 
sorrow  that  he  was  most  helpful.  His  tender 
gentleness  made  him  at  once  the  accepted  coun- 
sellor of  all  in  distress.  His  quick  sympathy  con- 
soled and  soothed  in  cases  when  no  alleviation 
could  be  offered.  The  very  grasp  of  his  hand 
assured  you  of  his  willingness  to  share  your  burden 
with  you.  After  all  he  had  gone  through  in  life, 
one  might  have  expected  that  he  would  have  been 
broken  down,  that  his  ministry  would  have  been  a 
sorrowful  crucifixion  of  self,  but  it  was  not  so. 

112 


■"▼" 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


113 


Hazle- 
without 
vship  of 
mion  of 
pew  our 
e.     The 
m.     No 
58  and  in 
was  in 
tender 
jd  coun- 
thy  con- 
leviation 
■lis   hand 
burden 


The  most  marvellous  feature  of  the  change  he  had 
undergone  was  that  it  had  conferred  upon  him 
mental  health.  There  was  nothing  morbid  or 
melodramatic  about  it.  He  was  manly,  frank  and 
cheerful,  ev^en  boyish.  He  spoke  and  thought  much 
less  of  his  inner  feelings  than  he  had  been  wont  to 
do.  He  even  referred  calmly  to  his  sorrow, 
although  every  day  he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  his 
boy's  grave.  The  world  seemed  to  have  a  new  in- 
terest for  him.  All  his  former  intellectual  powers 
were  there,  but  they  were  brought  into  a  healthy 
proportion  and  subordination  to  the  sense  of  duty 
to  God  and  the  personal  love  of  Jesus,  which  had 
become  the  main  spring  of  his  life.  Perhaps,  if  in 
anything  he  was  liable  to  be  misunderstood  it  was 
in  the  magazine  articles  which  he  wrote  from  time 
to  time,  and  in  his  sermons.  Old-fashioned  people, 
whose  minds  moved  in  a  rut,  and  who  loved  the 
rut,  were  sometimes  startled  by  the  new  and  strange 
way  he  had  of  putting  things.  The  fact  was, 
Hndewood  was  a  genius,  and  when  he  had  ac- 
cepted a  truth  he  gave  it  back,  coloured  with  his 
wonderful  personality.  Truth  in  his  mind  was 
analyzed  and  reasoned  out  into  all  its  ways  and  by- 


11 


114 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


i  «•■■;•  . 


'  >:.' 


■'.  ■!'; 


i:'i       ;     '   J 


ways.  He  had  absolutely  no  fear  of  possible  con- 
sequences in  his  statement  of  what  he  conceived  to 
be  truth.  He  was  frankness  itself,  and  to  this  was 
owing  his  singular  power  in  dealing  w^ith  tliasc 
who  knew  and  trusted  him.  In  noting  these 
characteristics,  it  must  be  remembered  that  Hazle- 
wood  came  to  his  work  with  a  mature  mind,  and 
with  a  deep  knowledge  of  the  world  and  men. 
But  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  give  a  detailed  account 
of  his  life,  only  to  indicate  its  main  features,  and 
describe  more  minutely  the  various  turning  points 
in  his  history  and  mental  development.  As  part 
of  his  spiritual  experience,  and  not  without  its 
future  bearing  upon  this  story,  I  may  here  record  a 
remarkable  dream  which  Hazlewood  had  towards 
the  close  of  his  residence  at  Beaconhurst.  On  the 
Sunday  evening  before  he  left  for  his  ordination  to 
the  priesthood  at  Winchester,  it  being  a  brilliant 
moonlight  night,  we  strolled  together  down  to  the 
shore.  The  great  waves  rolled  slowly  in  without 
ruffling  the  surface  of  the  ocean  and  the  b^ack  cliifs 
stood  up  behind  us  like  giants  who  bid  defiance  to 
the  encroaching  deep.  There  was  no  other  sound  to 
be  heard  but  the  plash  of  the  rollers^  as  they  broke 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


116 


along  the  shore.  We  stood  silent  listening  to  that 
wonderful  sea-language.  I  was  reminded  of  those 
lines  of  Tennyson, 

"  And  rolling  far  along  the  rocky  shore 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be," 

and  quoted  them. 

"  How  glorious  those  verses  are,"  said  Hazlc- 
wood,  "  and  what  a  scenp  they  call  up  in  the  mind. 
All  the  splendour  and  subtle  mystery  of  a  night 
like  this  are  stored  up  in  them.  What  the  soul 
feels  to-night  is  vastness,  the  vastnoss  of  the  woild, 
the  vastness  of  eternity.  The  sea  always  appears 
to  me  to  be  the  emotional  part  of  physical  nature, 
or  the  world's  soul.  It  is  always  the  same ;  but 
the  same  because  always  changing.  The  winds 
like  passions  sweep  over  it  and  lash  it  into  fury ; 
the  sun  looks  down  upon  it  and  it  is  still.  Its 
sympathetic  bosom  reflects  the  colours  of  the  sky 
and  the  changes  in  the  clouds  and  atmosphere. 
As  in  man,  memory  bears  on  to  the  limits  of  age 
softened  echoes  of  the  souPs  pa.pt  pains  and  struggles, 
so  the  billow^s  which  re-echo  the  shock  and  anguish 
of  tempests   in   mid  ocean,  roll   off  in  subdued 


liii 


Ml 


ii 


116 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


grandeur  towards  the  distant  coast.  And  in  nights 
like  these,  surely  the  sea  sleeps  and  dreams.  Down 
in  its  mysterious  mile  depths  of  water  the  great 
impulses  and  tides  are  like  the  underlying  currents 
of  thought  in  the  soul  which  rest  not  day  nor 
night." 

We  had  turned  as  he  was  talking  and  walked  on 
to  the  cave  in  the  cliff  under  the  point  on  which 
his. house  stood.  We  sat  do^vn  for  a  while  on  the 
rocks.     Then  Hazlewood  said : 

"  The  other  night  I  had  such  a  curious  dream. 
I  don't  often  remember  my  dreams,  but  this  one 
made  a  great  impression  upon  me.  I  dreamt 
that  I  was  out  riding  by  myself  at  night  on  that 
road  to  Insworth  which  you  and  I  have  so  often 
travelled  together.  I  was  very  lonely  and  very 
sad  as  I  rode.  Then  I  felt  that  some  one  was  rid- 
ing after  me  and  trying  to  overtake  me,  and  after 
a  time  I  became  conscious  that  it  was  she,  my 
l^oor  lost  wife.  She  seemed  to  be  crying  out  to 
me  and  begging  me  to  turn  and  wait  for  her,  but 
I  would  not.  Then  I  heard  her  say  distinctly, 
*  We  shall  meet  there,'  but  I  did  not  look  round  or 
ask  her  where.     Suddenly,  as  I  rode,  never  slack- 


,,-.'.--^'    'fir 

•tei!)  .■,c.;i;;;"  All 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


117 


ing  my  speed,  I  came  to  a  large  pond  by  the  way- 
side, and  I  reined  in  my  horse  and  dismounted, 
and  looked  into  the  water  among  the  rushes,  and 
there  I  found  it — ^the  body  of  my  dead  child. 
As  I  lifted  him  out  all  cold  and  wet,  she  came  up, 
and  I  was  angry  with  her  no  longer,  and  she  and 
I  kissed  each  other,  and  we  kissed  the  child,  and 
the  child  revived  and  stood  between  us.  Then 
long  sti^eamers  of  a  wonderful  Aurora  rolled  out 
over  the  heavens,  like  the  unfurling  of  the  flag  ol 
victory,  and  it  grew  as  light  as  day.  We  looked 
up  over  the  water,  and  behold,  it  was  a  sea  of 
glass,  and  I  turned  to  my  wife,  from  whose  face 
all  sorrow,  all  earthliiiess  were  passed  away,  and 
bending  down  to  her  I  said,  *  For  ever  1  *  '' 

It  was  partly  the  scene,  and  partly  the  music  of 
Hazlewood's  voice,  and  the  soft,  absent  way  in 
v/hich  he  related  the  dream,  which  thrilled  me  so 
strangely.  I  sat  there  on  the  ro«4'S  looking  at  his 
profile,  as  he  gazed  out  to  sea,  entranced  by  that 
curious  spiritual  chaiin  which  he  at  all  times  exer- 
cised over  me.  He  carried  me  with  him  into  the 
mysterious  dreamland  of  his  vision.  I  saw  it  all, 
the  long,  dim  road,  the  pond,  the  dead  child,  and 


118 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


the  reunion  by  the  shining  water.  I  felt  it  was 
prophetic,  even  while  I  dared  not  hope  so,  dared 
not  pray  so.  When  I  bid  him  farewell  at  the 
Vicarage  gate,  light,  ruffled  clouds  had  spread 
over  the  moon,  and  its  rays  were  dim,  and  I  could 
not  see  his  features  clearly.  The  outline  was 
vague,  he  seemed  to  be  already  merging  into  the 
shadows.  Had  I  known  then  that  this  was  to 
be  our  last  meeting  on  this  side  of  eternity,  and 
that  never  again  should  I  see  that  wonderful  face, 
as  it  had  been  through  boyhood,  youth,  and  in  the 
prime  of  manhood,  till  I  shall  see  it  glorified  in 
the  Kingdom  of  God,  how  I  should  have  gazed 
lovingly  through  the  darkness,  till  I  had  traced 
the  outline  of  each  remembered  feature. 


■T-  "1 


it  wai5 
),  dared 
at  the 
spread 
I  could 
ine  was 
into  the 
was  to 
lity,  and 
fui  face, 
id  in  tho 
)rified  in 
ve  gazed 


CHAPTER  X. 

TT  had  been  arranged  that  I  should  go  down  to 
-^  Winchester  for  Elton's  ordination.  I  was  to 
ptay  at  the  Abbey  of  St.  Cross,  about  a  mile  or  so 
out  of  the  city,  with  old  Dr.  Buxton,  a  college 
friend  of  my  father's.  Owing  to  a  case  of  serious 
illness  in  the  parish,  T  was  unable  to  leave  home 
till  Saturday  afternoon,  and  when  I  arrived  at 
Winchester,  it  was  raining  in  torrents.  Dr.  Bux- 
ton had  sent  his  carriage  for  me,  so  I  drove  com- 
fortably to  the  Abbey.  I  had  expected  that  Elton 
would  have  come  to  see  me  in  the  evening,  as  I 
had  asked  him  to  do,  but  there  were  so  many  pos- 
sible reasons  why  he  should  not,  that,  beyond  a 
feeling  of  disappointment  at  not  being  able  to  wish 
him  Godspeed  before  his  oixiination,  his  absence 
cost  me  no  thought.  The  night  was  dark  and  wet, 
he  would  probably  have  some  business  to  transact, 
he  would  be  tired  after  the  examinations  and  would 
want  to  rest  before  the  solemn  ordeal  of  the  next 

119 


120 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


mnji 


day,  one  or  more  of  these  reasons  occurred  to  my 
mind  as  sufficient  excuse  for  his  non-appearance. 

Sunday  was  a  glorious  day.  I  was  awakened 
shortly  after  sunrise  by  the  noise  of  birds  in 
a  tree  near  my  window.  A  soft  sweet  wind 
came  in  through  the  open  casement,  and  from 
where  I  lay  in  bed,  I  could  catch  a  glimpse  oi  the 
distant  river  through  the  meadows,  and  a  hill  be- 
yond. The  part  of  the  Master's  Lodge  in  which 
my  room  was  situated  was  covered  with  ivy,  and 
some  straggling  leaves,  as  the  sun  shone  through 
them,  made  a  bright  green  bordure  to  one  side  of 
my  window.  The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  room 
were  panelled  in  black  oak,  and  evidently  hun- 
dreds of  years  had  passed  since  human  hands 
carved  those  quaint  figures  over  the  fireplace.  I 
lay  still  for  n  time,  thinking  about  the  manifold 
changes  in  man  and  life  which  these  walls  had 
seen.  In  the  house  there  was  absolute  silence,  but 
the  notes  of  birds  filled  my  room  with  melody. 
The  stillness  of  the  chamber,  however,  the  scent  of 
the  breeze,  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and  the  old 
historical  associations  of  the  place,  affected  me  only 
as  a  sweet  dream,  till  of  a  sudden,  my  eye  caught 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


121 


the  reflexion  of  the  sun  from  a  small  flaw  in  one 
of  the  lozenged  window  panes.  The  thing  shone 
like  a  dewdrop  or  diamond.  It  was  very  small, 
but  sent  to  me  a  tiny  brilliant  ray.  Straightway, 
as  though  I  had  heard  a  note  of  music,  the  com- 
bined effect  of  sight  and  sound,  which  had  soothed 
me  but  a  moment  before  in  a  pleasing  reverie,  was 
intensified,  and  in  a  thrilling  trance  my  mind  was 
carried  back  to  my  dear  old  boyhood's  home. 
Sometimes  the  veriest  trifle  will  strike  in  this  way 
a  nerve  of  emotional  association  and  electrify  at 
once  our  whole  being.  It  may  have  been  that  the 
brilliant  speck  in  the  glass  reminded  me  of  the  shin- 
ing of  the  sun  on  the  pond  at  home,  on  the  Sunday 
morning  on  which  Hazlewood  and  my  father  had 
the  conversation  I  have  narrated.  Perhaps  it 
brought  back  memories  of  the  medley  of  colours  in 
the  little  old  Norman  window  by  the  Knight's 
tomb.  The  point  of  light  carried  me  back  in  a 
world  of  dreams  to  Hazlewood  and  his  visit  to  us. 
IIow  it  was,  I  do  not  know,  but  so  real  was  this 
spiritual  resurrection  of  the  past,  that  as  I  gazed 
upon  the  scene  with  closed  eyes,  I  could  have 
averred  that  it  was  before  me.     I  heard  the  voices 


ji 


122 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


K  > 


of  those  long  dead,  and  had  I  been  a  painter,  I 
could  have  depicted  their  faces  and,  what  is  more 
difficult  to  do  from  memory,  the  clothes  they  wore 
of  bygone  fashion.     The  centre  of  the  dream  was 
of  course  Hazlewood.     I  saw  him  as  he  had  been, 
the   brilliant,   handsome  youth    with   the   world 
spread   dazzlingly  before   him.      I   went   fishing 
with   him   in  the  brook  which  ran  through   the 
Mallocks'  Park.     I  drove  him  in  our  little  pony 
cart  through  the  summer  lanes.     I  could  hear  him 
speak,  I  could  hear  the  ring  of  his  laugh.     Then, 
as   I   lay  awake  in  this  entrancing  exaltation  of 
feeling,  a  church  bell   in   the  distance   began  to 
toll,  and   reminded  me  of  the  day  and  the  sol- 
emn consecration  of  my  friend.     His  true  life  was 
only  about  to  begin  in  all  its  fullness.     The  past 
with  its  failures,  its  sorrows,  its  worldly  triumphs, 
had  been  put  away,  and  the  soldier  strong,  well- 
knit  and  fully  equipped  was  to  enter  the  battle  as 
the  champion  of  God.     I  did  not  sleep  again,  but 
was  out  in  the  garden  long  before  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  family  were  stirring. 

r*r.  Buxton  accompanied  me  to  the  Cathedral 
■\{  procured  me  a  seat  in  the  Choir.     The  place 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


123 


3am  was 


was  full  of  people,  and  the  organ  played  softly  as 
we  waited  for  the  clergy  to  enter.  Presently  we 
heard  an  "  Amen"  sung  by  the  choir  in  one  of  the 
transepts,  and  we  rose  as  the  choristers  entered 
from  the  nave.  They  took  their  places  two  by 
two  in  the  old  stalls,  and  my  eyes  anxiously 
scanned  the  long  line  of  faces  to  see  where  Hazle- 
wood  was.  But  I  looked  in  vain,  he  was  not 
there.  The  service  proceeded ;  I  thought  that  I 
must  have  been  mistaken ;  but  no,  the  candidates 
sat  in  a  place  by  themselves,  and  I  could  make 
out  their  features  distinctly.  Elton  was  not 
among  them.  What  could  have  happened  to 
him?  Dining  the  sermon,  I  could  hardly  sit 
still.  Somehow  or  other,  I  had  a  sense  that  the 
end  had  come,  I  did  not  attempt  to  say  what  end, 
but  I  felt  that  the  crisis  of  his  life  had  been  passed. 
He  was  to  have  no  part  here.  The  patlis  which 
to-day  were  opened  up  to  the  feet  of  those  young 
men,  paths  of  duty  and  love  and  self-sacrifice, 
were  closed  to  him.  The  future  I  had  imagined 
for  him  was  never  to  be  realized.  But  what  was 
that  future  now  to  be  ?  Why  had  he  not  come  ? 
Was  he  ill  ?    Had  his  heart  failed  him  at  the  last  ? 


124 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


M' 


y\'  ^ 


If  this  ordination  had  been  hel '  'en  years  ago, 
such  an  occurrence  would  have  been  possible  and 
even  probable.  But  no,  Elton  now,  the  strong 
earnest  man,  purified  and  tempered  by  God's  fiery 
trials,  was  not  one  to  turn  back  at  the  last.  Once 
the  thought  crossed  my  mind,  that  perhaps  in 
some  way  his  old  sin  had  found  him  out,  and  a 
threat  of  exposiu-e  been  made  through  revenge. 
At  any  rate,  why  had  he  not  called  on  me,  or 
written,  or  sent  word  that  he  was  not  coming? 
The  suspense  was  terrible,  and  yet  through  it  all, 
as  I  have  said,  I  had  a  sort  of  consciousness  that 
the  end  had  come.  O,  Elton,  noble  and  good  and 
true,  lonely  and  so  battered,  but  not  broken,  by 
life's  storms,  I  felt  that  the  fight  had  been  won, 
that  thou  hadst  received  thy  crown  ! 

As  the  white-robed  candidates  knelt  before  the 
Bishop,  and  a  boy's  voice,  clear  as  an  angel's,  be- 
gan the  *'  Veni  Creator  "  to  Attwood's  lovely  set- 
ting, I  made  it  rather  a  prayer  for  myse^^  than  for 
my  absent  friend.  After  the  service  I  went  to  the 
hotel  at  which  Hazlewood  had  stayed,  and  my 
anxiety  was  still  further  increased  on  learning  that 
he  had  not  been  seen  since  Thursday.     He  had 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


125 


received  a  letter  early  on  the  morning  of  that 
day  by  the  post  and  had  gone  out  shortly  after- 
wards. He  told  no  one  where  he  was  going, 
but  he  had  never  returned.  As  lie  had  left  his 
desk  and  portmanteau  in  his  room,  the  hotel 
people  had  expected  him  daily.  Later  on  in  the 
afternoon,  I  saw  the  Bishop's  chaplain  and  secre- 
tary, but  they  were  as  much  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand the  sudden  disappearance  as  I  was.  Acting 
on  their  advice,  I  put  the  matter  into  the  hands  of 
the  police,  and  telegraphed  to  his  lawyer  in  town. 
Every  conceivable  device  was  then  resorted  to  by 
which  we  might  obtain  information.  We  adver- 
tised, we  offered  rewards,  we  employed  detectives, 
but  in  vain.  Day  after  day  passed  away  and  no 
tidings  came. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  I  returned  home,  and 
there  the  silence  and  suspense  were  harder  to 
bear,  where  every  scene  recalled  so  vividly  the 
missing  one.  At  first  the  sympathy  of  the 
people  was  aroused,  they  feared  foul  play.  Soon 
however,  a  reaction  of  feeling  set  in,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  parish  gossips,  and  reports  damag- 
ing to   Elton's  character  were  circulated  freely. 


126 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


h\ 


|.4.rf-^a 


a, 


The  story  was  that  a  threatened  revelation  of 
some  old  crime  in  the  past  had  caused  his  fliglit. 
Most  of  the  people,  I  was  told,  came  to  think  by 
and  by  that  the  parish  was  well  rid  of  the  hand- 
some and  clever  curate,  who  had  already  got  the 
Vicar  too  much  under  his  finger  and  thumb. 
So  malevolent  and  ungrateful  is  the  world  that  I 
do  not  think  there  were  ten  individuals  in  the 
place  who  really  mourned,  or  sympathized  with,  or 
prayed  for  their  late  friend,  whose  self-sacrifice 
and  devotion  had  but  yesterday  been  proverbial. 
Very  little  was  said  to  me  on  the  subject,  but  I 
could  pretty  clearly  discern  the  public  sentiment. 
The  knowledge  of  it  stung  me  to  the  quick,  and 
made  me  hate  the  place  and  my  fellowmen,  and 
only  the  thought  of  our  Saviour  wearing  so  pa- 
tiently the  thorn-ta-own  of  the  world's  ingratitude, 
reconciled  me  to  continue  my  work  in  the  parish. 
Weeks  and  months  and  years  went  by  and  still 
we  heard  no  word  of  my  friend,  and  to  the  mys- 
tery which  shrouded  his  disappearance  was  added 
the  stain  of  the  world's  reproach.  Bitterly  did  the 
thought  of  this  add  to  my  bereavement,  yet  I 
never  doubted  him,  never  mistrusted  him,  and 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


127 


often,  when  some  incident  in  my  work,  some  old 
recollection,  some  annivei'sary,  has  forced  on  me  a 
double  portion  of  my  sorrow,  I  have  gone  and 
stood  out  in  the  churchyard  beside  his  boy*s  grave 
and  prayed  to  the  God  of  justice  and  love  to  right 
the  wrong,  and  clear  up  the  mystery  before  the 
eyes  of  the  cruel  world.  But  the  answer  came 
not,  and  year  after  year  the  stain  rested  upon  the 
memory  of  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  generous 
of  those  hearts,  who  from  time  to  time  come  into 
b^^ing  under  a  fellowship  with  the  unrecognition 
and  rejection  of  their  Master,  of  whom  it  is  said 
that  "  He  came  into  the  world,  and  the  world  was 
made  by  Him,  and  the  world   knew  Him  not." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


T^OWN  on  a  wild  stretch  of  the  Cornish  coast, 
-■"^^  about  a  mile  from  the  little  village  of  St. 
Maddo,  there  is  a  long  low  promontory  which  juts 
out  from  the  cliffs  into  the  ocean,  as  though  the 
shore  in  its  slumber  had  lain  one  unconquerable 
arm  upon  the  deep.  On  the  end  of  this  promon- 
tory stands  up  boldly  a  curious  rock,  so  flat  and 
square  and  clear-cut  that  it  looks  like  a  giant  altar 
on  which  past  races  were  wont  to  sacrifice  to  the 
Gods  of  land  and  sea.  The  storms  of  ages  have 
beaten  against  its  sides  and  thundered  at  its  iron 
base  in  vain.  It  is  scarred,  it  is  water-stained. 
It  has  heard  lightnings  split  the  rocks  around,  it 
has  felt  the  earthquakes  of  centuries,  but  it  stands 
unshaken  still,  as  though  carved  for  s»jme  special 
purpose  by  the  hand  of  God.  The  tidoy  as  they 
ebb  and  flow,  sweep  round  it  with  tremendous 
force,  and  the  long  Atlantic  breakers  dash  madly 
against  it  and  pile  high  their  foam  in  air,     Ajid 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD, 


120 


on  this  natural  altar  when  years  had  passed,  and 
dear  old  Elton's  name  had  become  a  bygone  tale, 
when  a  cloud  had  darkened  his  memory  before 
the  world,  in  a  marvellous  way,  my  prayer  was 
answered  and  the  mystery  cleared. 


My  wife  and  I  had  gone  for  a  short  holiday 
into  Cornwall,  and  while  there,  finding  ourselves 
in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Maddo,  and  recalling 
its  connexion  with  Hazlewood,  who,  as  tk:^  reader 
will  remember,  had  gone  there  with  Byrne  in  the 
same  summer  in  which  he  had  visited  us  in  Essex, 
we  determined  to  make  it  for  a  time  our  abode. 
Something  seemed  to  draw  me  thither,  it  may  have 
been  a  presentiment,  it  may  have  been  merely  that 
my  love  for  Hazlewood  gave  everything  connected 
with  him  a  peculiar  interest  to  me.  The  place, 
though  easy  of  access,  is  unfrequented  by  tourists, 
and  is  therefore  specially  charming  to  those  who 
love  nature  and  the  simple  rural  life  of  our  vil- 
lages. My  favourite  walk  every  afternoon  was  to 
the  rock  I  have  described.  It  had  a  weird  charm 
for  me.  Hour  after  hour  I  have  stood  with  my 
face  to  the  west  at  sunset,  and  gazed  at  the  long 


130 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD, 


a 


,1 


golden  pathway,  which  stretched  far  out  over  the 
infinite  sea  as  though  it  were  the  road  to  Heaven. 
Again  and  again,  as  I  have  looked  at  the  wide  ex- 
panse and  heard  the  waves  breaking  under  me,  I 
have  thought  of  Hazlewood  and  prayed  for  light. 
Little  did  I  dream  then  that  the  place  whereon  I 
stood  was  holy  ground,  consecrated  as  the  last  spot 
on  earth  on  which  his  feet  had  rested.  It  may  be 
that  in  some  occult  way,  it  \^'as  his  spiritual  pres- 
ence which  pervaded  the  place  and  made  it  so 
wonderful  to  me.  No  doubt  T  was  in  the  hands 
of  God,  and  he  had  directed  me  to  the  answering 
of  my  prayer.  There  is  nothing  strange  in  the 
coincidences  of  life,  but  at  every  moment  we  are 
upheld  and  guided  by  the  Divine  Hand.  The 
events  of  life  are  linked  together  in  a  golden  chain 
and  each  instant  is  made  to  be  the  true  preparation 
for  the  next.  We  cannot  be  rid  of  mysteries,  but 
to  those  who  believe,  all  mysteries  are  harmonized 
and  solved  by  the  ultimate  mystery  of  God. 

Late  on  the  last  afternoon  of  our  stay  at  St. 
Maddo,  I  went  out  by  myself  along  the  shore  to 
bid  farewell  to  the  rock  and  the  view  from  it  with 
which  I  had  grown  so  familiar.    The  sun  was 


fr- 


iJLTON  JUZLEWOOD, 


131 


er  the 
eaven. 
de  ex- 
me,  I 
r  light, 
reon  I 
ist  spot 
may  be 
1  pres- 
e  it  so 
;  hands 
Bwering 
in  the 
we  are 
.     The 
chain 
laration 
ies,  but 
ionized 

at  St. 

lore  to 

lit  with 

was 


almost  on  the  horizon,  not  a  breath  was  stirring, 
and  the  waves  broke  along  the  coast  in  tremulous 
lines  of  white,  softly  as  a  child  smiles  in  sleep.  The 
great  strength  of  the  deep  arid  the  formless  passions 
of  its  under-currents  were  hushed  and  stilled  by  the 
calm  loveliness  of  the  evening.  Nature  was  full 
of  the  repose  which  flows  from  the  heart  of  God, 
in  whom  alone  infinite  power  coexists  with  infinite 
will.  Never  is  power  grander  than  when  it  is 
TTiarsifpstod  in  restraint.  The  subdued  stillness  of 
the  air  and  ocean  was  inexpressibly  wonderful, 
and  as  the  sun  sank  lower  and  touched  the  far, 
faint  wall  of  the  western  waves,  irradiated  by  the 
golden  glories  of  the  sky,  the  whole  scene  was  an 
unspoken  parable.  It  was  the  vision  of  a  strong 
and  noble  soul  calraed,  softened,  and  sublimed  by 
the  light  of  Heaven.  Without  speaking,  without 
even  formulating  one's  ideas,  to  l^ehold  jjuch  a 
scene  tvas  a  sacrament,  to  breathe  iii  it  was  to  pray. 
Lying  o^t  at  full  length  on  the  rocks,  I  lingered 
on  till  the  pure  gold  of  the  western  horizon  had 
deepened  into  crimson,  p,nd  the  crimson  had  faded 
into  pale  yellow.  Then  I  rose  and  turned  to  go, 
sorrowing  to  leave  the  j)lace  as  though  I  was  de- 


!   II 


13^ 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOi). 


LI. 


!i 


scending  from  the  mount  of  the  transfiguration. 
It  was  with  a  start,  that  I  discovered  1  had  not 
been  alone  upon  the  rock.  At  a  short  distance, 
gazing  at  me  intently  and  curiously,  stood  a  man. 
He  was  deeply  bent,  and  he  leaned  feebly  upon 
his  stick.  His  hat  was  pushed  back  from  his  fore- 
head and  left  his  features  bare.  The  face  was 
blanched  and  haggard,  and  looked  as  though  pre- 
maturely aged  by  acute  suffering  or  former  dissi- 
pation. His  gaze  was  fixed  earnestly  upon  me, 
and  as  I  stood  regarding  him,  a  dim  sense  of 
recognition  came  over  me.  I  had  seen  that  face 
before.  It  was  mixed  up  with  old  associations  in 
my  soul.  The  thought  of  it  was  bound  up  mys- 
teriously with  the  love  of  someone  in  the  past, 
and  the  knowledge  of  a  great  wrong.  Then  the 
consciousness  of  recognition  deepened,  my  heart 
suddenly  stopped  beating,  my  breath  came  short 
and  quick,  the  whole  scene,  all  save  the  bowed  fig- 
ure before  me,  melted  instantly  away,  and  recoil- 
ing, I  said, 

"Byrne!" 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  in  a  deep  hollow  voice, 
"  We  have  met  at  last,  and  for  the  last  time.     I 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


133 


was 


I  voice, 
le.     I 


heard  at  the  village  you  were  here  and  I  said  I 
will  go  and  meet  him  there,  and  now  he  shall 
know  the  truth.  It  has  been  kept  too  long  but  it 
shall  be  kept  no  longer.  There  is  no  need  to  do  so, 
for  the  lips  that  now  speak  to  you  will  soon  be 
silent  forever,  and  T  shall  be  beyond  the  power  of 
human  blame  and  human  vengeance.  Let  my 
last  act  be  one  of  justice  to  the  dead." 

He  BT)oke  slowly  and  with  a  solemn  precision, 
as  though  the  utterance  of  every  word  gave  him  a 
stab  of  pain.  The  voice  was  as  much  the  shadow 
of  a  human  voice  as  the  man  was  the  shadow  of  a 
man.  Voice  and  man  on  that  lone  rock,  with  the 
dark  cliffs  in  the  background,  filled  me  with  an 
undefinable  dread,  and  I  stood  speechless,  as 
though  awed  by  some  ghostly  apparition.  Never, 
for  a  moment,  did  he  change  his  position  nor  with- 
draw his  gazc:  f  m  mine,  but  continued  in  the 
same  hollow  ;  <aics. 

"  The  burden  oi  )  great  guilt,  intensified  by  the 
guilt  of  silence  from  year  to  year,  has  crushed  me 
down  and  destroyed  my  manhood."  He  paused, 
and  then  continued.  '*  Do  you  know  what  jealousy 
is  ?    Yes,  you  do ;  it  is  classed  under  the  head  of 


'5its 


ii.|, 


>i> 


134 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


if 


Ml 


envy  among  the  seven  deadly  sins,  but  you  do  not 
know  it  as  I  know  it,  as  something  which  is  never 
absent  from  you  for  a  moment,  as  something 
which  turns  even  the  sweets  of  life  into  gall  and 
wormwood,  which  drags  you  into  hate  and  crime, 
as  a  demoniacal  impulse  which  grows  more  master- 
ing and  morbid  as  life  goes  on.  It  is  well  you  do 
not.  I  was  born  under  u  <  ^T-se ;  it  is  an  inherit- 
ance in  my  blood,  and  the  .  ags  of  it  even  now 
as  I  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  fasten  with 
serpent  fangs  upon  my  soul.  And  yet  it  is  sweet 
too,  yes,  very,  very  sweet.  There  was  one  girl  I 
loved  long,  long  ago.  She  was  an  angel.  She 
might  have  made  something  godlike  of  me,  had  I 
had  her  love  in  return.  There  was  one  man  whom 
I  loved  long,  long  ago.  He  was  godlike.  I  loved 
him  passionately  as  one  man  seldom  loves  another. 
I  brought  the  two  together.  The  moment  their 
eyes  met,  I  saw  that  my  doom  was  sealed.  She 
gave  him  what  she  had  refused  to  me.  But  do 
you  think  I  let  them  know  that  I  saw  it  ?  No,  I 
was  not  such  a  fool.  I  bided  ray  time.  Since  the 
swet-tness  of  love  could  not  be  mine,  the  sweetness 
of  hate  could.     At  one  time,  I  had  been  willing  to 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


135 


s??<;rificc  everjlhing  for  the  sake  of  the  girl,  and 
offered  to  waive  social  questions  and  marry  her 
honourably,  if  she  would  take  me ;  but  when  I 
saw  that  she  loved  him,  I  thought  and  plotted  and 
lied,  till  my  plans  were  successful,  and  her  life  was 
ruined.  Then  I  plotted  and  lied  till  I  had  got 
him  to  loathe  her,  and  refuse  to  marry  her.  I 
had  hard  work  to  do  this,  for  my  friend  was  not 
like  me,  he  had  a  conscience.  The  next  year  I 
had  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  her  death.  But 
did  this  quiet  the  devil  in  my  heart  ?  Not  a  whit. 
The  man  who  had  blighted  my  life  was  at  large 
and  prosperous.  I  did  not  tell  him  that  the 
woman  was  dead.  Outwardly,  I  continued  his 
friend,  for  even  while  I  hated  him,  by  a  curious 
paradox,  not  unknown  to  those  who  make  a  study 
of  mental  phenomena,  I  still  loved  hira,  and  could 
not  bear  to  leave  him.  Once  more,  after  many 
yeai's,  again  I  loved,  not  with  the  old,  pure  love 
which  comes  only  once  in  a  life  time,  but  with  a 
strong,  if  lower,  attachment.  A  second  time  my 
friend  crossed  my  path  and  took  my  coveted  prize 
from  me.  You  know  what  my  revenge  was  then. 
Oh,  it  was  sweet,  that  lovely   stolen  honeymoon 


136 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


w 


m 


■i^ 


among  the  Swiss  Mountains.  It  was  glorious  to 
think  of  him,  this  time  conquered  and  humbled, 
while  I  was  in  triumph.  But  it  was  all  a  delu- 
sion, she  never  loved  me,  she  had  left  him  in 
jealousy  and  spite.  His  cursed  influence  followed 
me  even  there,  and  the  woman  loved  him,  after  she 
had  left  him,  as  she  had  never  loved  him  before. 
I  knew  it,  so  I  watched  her.  I  gave  her  no 
money.  One  dark  October  night,  in  a  wild  moun- 
tain region,  she  fled  from  me  penniless  and  thinly 
clad,  alone  over  the  Sira^lor  Pass.  She  was  soon 
to  become  a  mother,  and  was  not  in  a  condition  to 
stand  fatigue.  Two  days  after,  she  died  raving 
mad  in  a  little  Ursuline  convent  at  Vi^ge.  She 
had  confessed  to  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  and  re- 
ceived the  sacraments  the  day  before.  Again  I 
was  humbled  and  my  friend  had  triumphed,  he 
who  had  not  only  stolen  from  me  the  two  women 
I  had  loved,  but  who  had  been  admired  and 
applauded  and  given  the  first  place,  while  I  was 
passed  over  at  college  and  upon  the  stage.  The 
thing  was  intolerable  to  me.  I  retTimed  to 
England  after  some  years,  and  heard  of  his  ap- 
proaching ordination.    It  was  my  last  chance,    I 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


137 


was  living  neai*  here  then  with  an  old  uncle.  I 
wrote  to  the  man  at  Winchester  to  come  to  me  at 
once,  or  if  he  preferred  it  I  would  go  to  him,  for  I 
had  a  message  for  him  from  the  dead.  He  came 
and  waited  for  me  here.  Away  from  all  human 
sights  and  sounds  on  a  wild,  windy  day,  I  met 
him  on  this  rock.  He  was  changed,  he  was  calm 
and  self  controlled.  I  felt  from  the  first  that  my 
power  over  him  was  gone,  but  I  did  my  best,  for 
I  knew  the  over  sensitiveness  of  his  nature.  I 
told  him  that  my  message  was  one  of  undying 
hate.  I  said  his  wife  had  gone  dovvn,  down,  do\/n, 
till  even  I  had  been  forced  at  last  to  turn  her  out 
on  the  street.  It  stung  him  to  the  quick,  he  grew 
pale,  but  he  answered  not  my  taunts.  Then  I 
told  him  why  I  had  sent  for  him.  I  threatened 
exposure,  I  painted  his  past  sin  in  its  most  hideous 
and  revolting  colours.  I  laughed  at  the  very  idea 
of  his  setting  himself  up  to  preach  to  others,  but  it 
was  in  vain.  He  heard  me  out  and  then  said, 
shaking  from  head  to  foot,  but  not  with  fear. 

"  Byrne,  I  know  what  you  are  and  your  mo- 
tives, and  they  are  so  despicable  that  they  do  not 
even  move  me  to  anger.     You  may  do  your  woret, 


138 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


m 

I 


I 


\. '  m 


the  threat  of  exposure  does  not  alarm  me.  The 
facts  of  the  case  are  already  known  to  those  who 
have  a  right  to  know  them,  and  years  of  bitter  re- 
pentance have  in  a  measure  wiped  out  my  guilt 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  I  do  not  fear  you,  you 
are  too  contemptible  ;  nay,  if  it  is  any  satisfaction 
for  you  to  know  it,  I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten 
you.  There  is  not  a  word  of  tnith  in  what  you 
say  about  my  wife  ;  something  tells  me  it  is  false. 
If  that  is  all  you  have  to  say  to  me,  I  must  go  j 
my  train  leaves  in  an  hour." 

He  brushed  me  aside  and  walked  away  erect 
and  proud.  I  shrank  from  him  as  though  he  had 
spumed  and  crushed  me  under  his  heel.  Then 
my  fury  overmastered  me,  and  blind  with  passion 
I  struck  him  from  behind.  He  faced  me,  and  we 
closed.  He  was  strong,  stronger  than  I,  and 
shook  me  off.  Humbled,  baffled,  and  foaming 
with  rage,  I  sprang  up,  as  he  turned  to  go,  and 
catching  his  arm,  dragged  him  back  violently.  I 
do  not  suppose  that  I  had  any  definite  intention. 
It  was  all  done  in  a  few  seconds,  bat  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  action  or  the  force  of  the  f;ale  which 
was  blowing  off  shore,  made  him  lose  liis  balance. 


ELTON  UAZLEWOOD. 


139 


We  were  close  to  the  edge  of  the  rock.  He  stag- 
gered backwards  and  catching  involuntarily  at 
me  to  save  himself,  fell  over  into  the  water,  drag- 
ging me  Avith  him.  I  felt  the  awful  plunge,  the 
shock  of  the  cold  waves,  and  the  despair.  \Vc 
rose  to  the  surface  side  by  side  and  struggled  for 
life.  We  were  not  far  from  the  rock,  but  in  the 
huge  seas  that  dashed  against  it,  our  effoils  were 
wellnigh  hopeless.  Hazlewood  was  a  better  swim- 
mer than  I.  He  made  for  a  little  ledge  which 
far  down  projects  from  the  face  of  this  rock.  It 
was  the  only  foothold  that  presented  itself,  but  it 
was  so  small  that  it  could  barely  aiford  shelter 
for  one.  He  reached  it  and  by  a  supreme  effort 
drew  himself  up  and  mounted  upon  it.  I  saw 
that  he  was  safe ;  I  was  drowning.  I  could  keep 
up  no  longer.  My  breath  was  gone.  I  tried  to 
cry  to  him  for  help,  but  the  water  sucked  me 
under  and  as  I  sank  I  put  up  my  hands  in  des- 
pair. When  I  rose  again,  Hazlewood  was  at  my 
side.  He  had  dived  into  the  waves  to  save  me. 
I  caught  him  frantically  by  the  arm. 

"  Let  go,"  he  said,  "  let  go  of  my  aiTQ  or  we 
shall  both  drown," 


140 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


B'< 

m 

i 

HH^i<, 

j^ 

^SIK 

isi 

I  did  80,  and  held  him  round  the  body.  Then 
with  superhuman  strength,  against  the  wind  and 
tide,  he  made  once  more  for  the  ledge.  I  thought 
we  should  never  reach  it,  for  the  sea  heaved  up  and 
down,  at  one  time  dashing  us  against  the  rock,  at 
another  tearing  us  from  it.  But  he  saved  me. 
All  torn  and  bleeding,  and  choked  with  the  salt 
water,  he  succeeded  in  catching  hold  of  a  piece  of 
seaweed  in  a  crevice,  and  while  a  wave  for  a  mo- 
ment raised  us  to  a  level  with  the  ledge,  I  crawled 
upon  it.  Then  I  knew  what  he  had  done,  that  he 
had  given  his  life  for  mine.  But  there  was  no 
time  to  think. 

"Quick,  quick,  hold  on  there,"  Hazlewood 
gasped,  "you  are  safe.  Climb  down  at  low  water. 
There  is  no  room  for  two.  I  must  try  for  the 
shore." 

"  Don't,"  I  cried,  "  don't,  you  will  be  lost. 
The  cove  is  too  far  off.  The  rocks  here  are  like 
walls  and  run  down  sheer  to  the  water." 

"  I  must,"  he  said,  "  I  lose  time.  Stay  where 
you  are,  you  will  be  safe.     I  do  not  fear  death." 

He  said  something  else,  but  his  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  winds  and  waves.    He 


ELTON  ILiZLEWOOD. 


141 


let  go  or  the  rock  and  plunged  back  into  the  sea,  and 
a  great  wave  curled  round  him  with  strong  white 
arms.  He  breasted  it  and  I  watched  him  as  he 
struggled  on.  I  knew  that  it  was  hopeless.  He 
was  exhausted  by  his  efforts  to  save  me.  Little  by 
little  the  tide  bore  him  out  beyond  the  lea  of  the 
rock.  Suddenly  the  full  force  of  the  gale  struck 
him  and  a  cloud  of  spray  hid  him  from  view.  I 
looked  and  thought  he  had  gone,  when  again  on 
the  crest  of  a  wave,  I  saw  his  pale  face.  He  was 
still  trying  to  swim,  but  his  eyes  were  closed. 
I  thought  he  was  praying,  for  there  was  a  look  of 
resignation  on  his  features  which  they  had  never 
worn  before.  I  only  saw  him  for  a  moment,  for 
the  wind  howled  and  the  spray  beat  upon  me  and 
blinded  me,  and  when  I  looked  again  he  was  gone. 
All  that  night  long,  weak,  and  chattering  wdth  the 
cold,  I  clung  to  the  rock.  I  shrank  from  the  sea 
in  horror,  not  because  it  meant  death  to  me,  but 
because  it  held  Hazlewood!s  body.  The  roar  of 
the  breakers  was  full  of  the  reverberations  of  his 
voice.  In  the  white  eddies  of  the  waves,  as  they 
curled  below  me,  I  saw  his  dead  face.  His  eyes 
opened  and  looked  up  at  me.     The  phosphores- 


112 


ELTON  IIAZLEWOOD. 


K*  ,~^77 


.( ' 


'M 


cenoe  of  the  spray  was  the  shining  of  a  si)ectial 
glory.  The  cold  flakes  of  foam  lapping  the  blade 
rock  beneath  me  were  his  white  hands  put  forih 
to  touch  me.  The  horror  drove  me  to  madness, 
and  when  I  was  I'escued  by  some  fishermen  ul 
dawn,  I  was  dazed  and  almost  insensible,  and  I 
cried  like  a  child.  I  only  sobbed  when  they 
asked  me  how  I  had  got  there.  The  thing  was  a 
mystery  then  and  a  mystery  it  has  since  remained. 
I  tell  it  to  you  now,  for  the  truth  has  been  hid  too 
long.  Publish  it  abroad,  and  let  the  world  know 
the  man  as  he  was."  He  paused,  as  if  struggling 
to  suppress  his  emotion,  then  added ;  "the  shadows 
darken  round  me  and  my  feet  draw  nigh  to  the 
iron  gate  which  has  so  often  shut  relentlessly  from 
human  sight  so  much  that  was  grand  and  noble, 
as  well  as  so  much  that  was  mean  and  defiled, 
in  the  millions  that  have  gone.  If  there  could  be 
hope  for  me,  if  I  could  yet  find  light,  it  would  be 
owing  to  the  light  which  the  noblest  and  grandest 
soul  I  have  ever  met  has  cast  upon  my  miserable 
heart.     Farewell  for  ever." 

He  said  no  more  and  the  darkness  which  had 
fallen  blurred  from  view  his  retreating  form.     A 


ELTON  lUZLEWOOD. 


143 


s|)oclral 
le  bla(  k 
It  fortJi 
ladncss, 
•men  tit 

and  I 
in  they 
^  was  a 
nained. 
liid  too 
1  know 
iiggling 
IiadoAvs 

to  the 
y  from 

noble, 
defiled, 
►uld  be 
>uld  be 
randest 
serable 


load  had  been  lifted  from  me.  The  place  seemed 
full  of  angels  with  shining  wings,  and  I  wag 
ht  up  nearer  to  the  starlit  heavens.  Shed- 
ding childlike,  happy  tears,  I  turned  my  face  to 
the  sea,  over  which  the  spirit  of  Hazlewood  still 
brooded,  and  kneeling  I  poured  forth  my  thank- 
fulness to  God. 


h  had 
n.     A 


CHAPTER  XII. 


I 


"VTEARS  and  years  have  passed  since  I  penned 
-■-  this  memoir,  and  the  hand  I  write  now 
looks  feeble  and  shaky  beside  that  of  :he  closing 
sentences  of  the  last  chapter.  Here  I  sit  in  the 
old  room  in  which  Elton  and  I  have  so  often  sat 
together.  The  window  is  open,  the  moon  is  full, 
and  over  the  perfect  stillness  of  the  summer  fields 
comes  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  To-day  I  have 
spent  in  correcting  this  manuscript.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  time  has  now  come  for  giving  it  to  the 
world.  I  have  waited  and  waited  conscious  of  its 
shortcomings,  and  how  inadequately  I  have  ful- 
filled my  task.  But  now  age  is  dulling  my  facul- 
ties, and  I  must  accept  this  imperfection  as  inevi- 
table. Let  the  book  go  forth  as  it  is.  It  was  tx) 
me  when  I  wrote  it,  a  labour  of  love  for  one  whose 
love  was  passing  the  love  of  women,  and  it  is  to 
me  now,  as  I  re-read  it,  a  source  of  tender  solici- 
tude and  tears.     To-night  amid  the  scenes  once  so 

144 


,  '.^.r*' 


JELTON  HAZLEWOOi). 


146 


penned 

ite  now 

closing 

t  in  the 

often  sat 

is  full, 

er  fields 

I  have 

ieems  to 

it  to  the 

us  of  its 

ive  ful" 

Y  facul- 

inevi- 

was  tx) 

B  whose 

it  is  to 

'  solici- 

once  so 


familiar  to  him,  in  which  he  once  lived  and 
moved,  he  is  tx)  me  real  and  living  as  he  was  of 
old.  His  face  is  lovely  and  fresh,  his  eyes  full  of 
spiritual  light,  and  his  hand  gives  the  firm  gener- 
ous grasp  it  once  gave. 

Out  there,  under  the  still  shadow  of  the  church, 
is  little  Elton's  grave  with  its  message  of  hope  to 
mankind  "  The  Word  was  made  Flesh,"  graven  on 
the  stone,  round  which  the  flowers  are  regularly 
tended,  for  the  sake  of  the  beloved  dead,  by  a 
white-haired  old  clergyman  and  his  wife.  There, 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  is  the  gate  where  I  last 
saw  him  over-shadowed  by  clouds  that  were  pro- 
phetic of  yet  deeper  gloom.  The  whole  place  still 
breathe  of  him,  and  the  years  as  they  have  died 
away,  have  brought  no  real  abatement  of  the  love 
I  bore  him.  Often  when  I  lie  awake  at  night,  a 
vision  of  the  stone  cross,  which  now  broode  over 
the  dark  tides  far  away  on  the  Cornish  coast, 
comes  before  me,  and  in  the  gloom  the  altar 
rock  is  to  me  almost  a  second  Calvary.  For  on 
the  base  of  the  cross  is  this  inscription  in  letters 
of  gold : 

"  Near  this  spot,  Elton  Hazlewood,  for  the  love 


146 


ELTON  HAZLEWOOD. 


/t-^vVi 


t 


,"1 


'I    1 


and  memory  of  God^s  Son,  laid  down  his  JJfe  to 
save  that  of  his  enemy." 

O,  true  and  noble  heart,  I  consecrate  this  work 
to  thy  memory,  and  lay  it  before  the  world;  tnist- 
ing  by  it  to  show  thee  to  men  as  thou  wast  in  thy 
simple  grandeur,  and  also  to  uplift  by  it  the  shadow 
of  a  great  wrong  which  darkens  the  sanctity  of 
thine  unknown  and  unconsecrated  grave.  And 
now  with  it,  I  lay  aside,  as  a  sealed  book,  the 
sweet  thoughts  and  the  sad  of  our  past  earthly  con- 
verse. For  ought  not  I  now  to  look  forward,  I, 
with  my  strength  declining,  with  the  future  grow- 
ing nearer,  with  my  feet  almost  washed  by  the  en- 
gulfing sea  ? 

Even  so,  with  no  pain  and  no  fear,  I  look  on- 
ward to  that  reunion  where  now  thou  and  thy 
loved  ones  are  together,  as  it  was  told  thee  by  God 
in  a  dream,  *  forever.' 

THE  END. 


bis  life  to 


this  work 
Id;  tnist- 
st  in  th^ 
le  shadow 
mctity  of 
?.      And 
50ok,  the 
thly  con- 
rward,  I, 
ire  grow- 
y  the  en- 
look  on- 
and  thy 
!  by  God 


